Chapter Text
His heart is racing.
Patrick can feel his pulse thrum throughout his entire body.
His fingers tingle where they drag down the soft skin of his best friend’s throat.
Art makes a little noise and heat sizzles through him.
He licks Art’s lips. Those gorgeous, pink lips. Eats him. Moves closer.
Art makes another noise and Patrick feels like this is what he was made for.
Finally he has a purpose.
Making Art feel good.
He was made to bring him pleasure, to please him, and god, it feels exhilarating.
Their noses smash together. They're being sloppy about it and it's beautiful. Art turns his face, nudging his nose, making room for himself and keeps kissing him.
Patrick growls and brushes a hand through those blond strands.
He stops himself from tugging. He knows Art would get off on that, knows that it would make him lose his mind, the way he's already nearly squirming in his lap.
It wouldn't take much, to pull some of those delicious groany whimpers from him, the ones he knows from the court, the ones he has secretly been playing and replaying in his mind since they were twelve and he heard him gasp into the darkness for the very first time.
And Patrick isn't quite sure if he'd be able to stop himself if he got to hear the updated version of Art coming in his shorts.
He breathes through his nose, not wanting to split apart from him. Not wanting this moment to end, this perfect, mad and completely life-altering moment.
It's crazy that they're doing this.
Making out. With each other.
If anyone had told him when he woke up this morning that he would be in this position by the end of the night, he'd have laughed. He'd never have believed them.
Him and Art are friends. Best friends.
And Patrick has wanted him ever since he knew what it meant to want someone.
Since the very first time he saw those pretty eyes light up in happiness, those signature bouncy blond curls, that cheeky smile, that fucking jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
Ever since the very first time he managed to pull out that dorky laugh of his with a bad pun, each time he managed to make him smile despite just throwing a game or flunking classes or losing out on a girl's number to some other idiot.
Each time they argued over serving techniques, over what to get for dinner or because one of them stole a shirt or broke a racket.
Since he knew what it meant to be entwined, to have your heart so truly belong to someone else, there was nothing he wouldn't do to keep him safe. To make him happy.
It didn't take many nights spent in beds next to each other at the academy before it was cemented firmly in his heart.
Art was a keeper. And his to keep safe.
Forever.
And now they're making out and the brightest star of the entire tennis scene is watching them. A girl both of them were helplessly pining over a few hours ago. Or maybe she left already, he genuinely has no idea.
He stopped paying attention the moment he felt Art’s lips touch his.
Art makes another noise and Patrick licks along the seam of his lips.
God, he’s a good kisser.
The perfect, plush feel of his hot lips, his tongue tentative and playful at the same time, the taste of him.
Patrick has never been more eager to kiss someone, has never wanted to devour someone whole, to own them, to fully claim and touch and brand and decimate them with pleasure, and he has no idea how they ended up in this situation.
He has no idea how their lips came to touch, they’ve never done this before, no matter how many times he has pictured it in his head. No matter how many times he's hated himself for thinking about his best friend in terms he really shouldn't. No matter how many times he's brought himself off to the thought of him, jerking off to the image of his perfect body absolutely drenched in sweat, racket in hand, his whiny groans as he slams the ball over the net, his muscles bulging with effort.
His smirk as their eyes meet, silently communicating and completely understanding his every move and intention before he has even had time to complete the thought himself.
Art has always known him. Known him better than anyone. Understood him in ways no one else bothered to even try to understand.
Art knows him better than he has ever known himself. Always knows exactly what he needs to hear at the right time. He gets him, knows when to smile and shrug it off, knows when to slap him around and tell him he's being an asshole, knows when he just needs a hug and a cigarette.
In his darkest moments he fears that the only way he knows how to be himself is through Art's eyes.
And he fears that if something were to ever break between them, he would fall apart.
It would simply destroy him.
He doesn't know how to be a person without him.
Doesn't know how to smile or eat or jerk off or sleep or play tennis without that goof of a best friend smiling at him from across the room. From the other bed. From the other side of the net.
He doesn't know how to be without Art.
A sharp pang of fear slices through him.
What if this ruins them.
What if Art suddenly realizes how much of a fucking loser he is, how selfish and egotistical and self-centered he is. How insecure and fucked up and worthless he really is.
If he realizes that he is nothing without him and not worth the fucking effort.
What if Art realizes that Patrick loves him and then runs away in disgust?
What if this perfect kiss is ruining their friendship one sultry lick at a time? What if the best moment of Patrick's entire life is really the end of him, his doom?
What if–
Art makes another noise, stronger, more insistent this time, almost as if telling Patrick's mind to shut the fuck up.
As if he can read his mind and sense what is going through him at this very moment.
Art shuffles closer, a strong hand gripping his knee, where it's smushed between his own on top of the crappy hotel sheets. Art squeezes, as if telling him to snap out of it and get with the program.
And Art is right. He always is.
Patrick shuts his brain the fuck up. And keeps kissing his best friend as if his life depended on it.
He pulls lightly at Art’s hair in gratitude, tugging at a perfect golden handful, just because he can't fucking help himself.
And when Art moans into his mouth Patrick nearly loses it completely.
He's only human and Art is fucking hot.
He inches impossibly closer, pulling Art into him, wanting to feel every hard edge and sharp line of his body against his own, wanting to feel his heart beat beneath that perfect chest, wants to feel his skin, wants to know if Art is burning up with sizzling heat the same way he is.
He keeps kissing him, pulling out his best moves, wants to give his best friend the best kiss of his fucking life. Wants to prove that he is worth it, that Patrick is worth it, wants to prove that maybe if his kisses are good enough, maybe he can some day deserve Art. Deserve to kiss someone as amazing as him.
Patrick knows he is a good kisser, he’s been told often enough, but this is Art.
Art is special. He is funny and smart, and he’s drop dead gorgeous, he is dedicated and stubborn, so fucking stubborn and his bullheadedness should be pissing Patrick off, but it oddly doesn't. He is the only one who never gets on his nerves. The only person he can stand no matter his mood. And all Patrick can do is smile, feeling warmth blooming all over his body when Art goes on one of his endless rants or gets something into his head he can't let go of. All Patrick can do is bump his shoulder, chuckle and ruffle his hair fondly.
Art is passionate, has more discipline and talent in his right little finger than Patrick has in his entire body, and he never quits or gives up. He always keeps going, keeps trying and keeps hoping that things will work out eventually, no matter how glum Patrick gets about it.
He is friendly and respectful and polite in ways Patrick will never understand. He is too self-sacrificing, too selfless. He gives too much and doesn't expect nearly enough in return.
He has a kind heart.
He is fucking dumb, doesn't realize how wonderful he is or how fucking great at tennis he is. He lets people walk all over him.
He's a dumb fuck who always tells jokes that are so fucking bad that Patrick can't help but laugh until his stomach aches. He gets too nervous and jittery and he has no game.
He is the sexiest motherfucker Patrick has ever laid eyes on.
And he wants him so fucking badly Patrick is nearly bursting with it.
“Okay–” a voice suddenly says from somewhere behind them, pulling them from their reverie.
Patrick has no idea how long they've been kissing. Has completely lost himself in the sensations of kissing his best friend, and he somehow forgot all about the hot girl staring at them. The girl whose number they were fighting over. It doesn't seem to really matter now.
He slowly pulls back, just slightly, allowing for a tiny bit of room between them. He doesn't dare move or jostle Art on the bed.
He can barely breathe.
His lips are tingling, his foot is asleep where it's cramped up on the bed, folded and nestled in the sheets next to Art's.
His eyes slowly blink open to be faced with what is arguably the best thing he's ever seen.
They're close, still. So close he can feel the heat of his skin against his own.
Art's cheeks are deliciously flushed, his hair a big mess atop his head where Patrick has been running his fingers through the strands, his lips puffy and pink and perfect, his long lashes fluttering across his cheeks.
Art hasn't opened his eyes yet, seems stuck in time with his eyes closed and his lips pursed and pushed out in a kiss he somehow forgot to end.
His mouth is obscene. Always has been. With the pretty bow of his top lip, the fullness of the bottom one. The one Patrick has been dying to grip in a firm touch between his thumb and index finger, the one he so desperately wants to tug down and feel if the inside is really as smooth and slick and warm as it looks.
Patrick wants to dive back in so fucking badly and reclaim those full lips in his. Shiny and pink and inviting.
Fucking salivating.
He licks his own lips with appetite and looks up to see Art gazing back at him, having finally opened his eyes. Those gorgeous blues staring back at him from beneath heavy lashes.
The most familiar pair of eyes in the world. The prettiest ones he has ever seen.
More familiar to him than his own.
And they're staring back at him with a glint dancing in their depths he has never seen before.
It equally scares him and alights him anew, sends a fresh pang of sizzling fire through his chest and he so desperately wants to kiss him again.
“So–” Tashi says.
Art licks his lips and Patrick thinks he's going to die if he doesn't get to kiss him again immediately.
“I'm gonna go, you've got a final to play tomorrow.”
Final?
Tomorrow?
Patrick blinks.
He had forgotten all about that.
He can feel Art breathing next to him.
Can feel the mattress dip as Art moves back slightly and looks up at Tashi. He rubs his face.
“What?” Art says dumbly, voice thick and slow like he is still completely entranced, and Patrick loves that goddamn idiot.
Tashi rolls her eyes at them both. They probably deserve it.
“You've got a game to play tomorrow, boys. Gotta rest up.”
Tashi gets up and goes to put her shoes back on, tossing her long hair behind her as she walks to the door.
They stare after her.
Before grabbing the handle and stepping through the door out into the hallway, she turns back and smirks.
“I'll be a good friend and come watch. And I told you, I'm not a homewrecker.”
She sends them what Patrick assumes is her approximation of a friendly smile, before walking out the door and slamming it shut behind her.
She really is the most gorgeous girl he has ever seen.
But it doesn't matter. It means shit.
Because before him sits the most gorgeous boy he's ever seen and his heart knows what it wants. Has always known.
There has never been any real competition, no one could ever measure up.
And if there was ever even the smallest part of him that wanted to get up and go chase after her, try to win her over, try to convince her to stay and let them have a chance to earn her affections– it instantly pales and dissolves and gives way to the want he feels rushing wildly through his entire body as he turns his gaze back onto the sweet face of his best friend sitting across from him, biting his bottom lip nervously.
As if he is afraid Patrick might actually leave him sitting here to go chase after some girl.
As if.
Patrick has everything he has ever wanted right here. And now he might actually have a chance to claim it all for himself. Everything he's dreamed of– maybe he can have it. It might become his.
“If you want to go after her you totally can,” Art says after a beat, after having seemingly made up his mind to act like a fucking dumbass.
He gets up, the boxers he has stolen from Patrick years ago tenting ridiculously in front and giving him zero chance to hide his thundering erection.
Patrick smirks and slaps his dick.
Art groans pathetically.
“You’re stupid, you know that?” he chuckles as Art falls back onto the bed, curling into a ball, whimpering and clutching himself.
“You're fucking stupid if you think I'd ever even consider the possibility of leaving this room. Unless you want me to,” he finds himself adding. Giving Art a way out if he wants.
He knows Art probably wouldn't be able to find the words for it himself so he offers.
He glances over at Art still squirming in pain on the bed.
“Fuck you. That shit fucking hurts,” he mumbles into the pillow.
Patrick can still hear the smile on his lips even with his face smudged into the sheets.
“I know,” Patrick smirks.
He gives Art another minute to compose himself.
When Art sits back up he gives Patrick a shove so hard he nearly falls off the bed.
Their eyes meet in identical twin smirks.
“Asshole,” Art says fondly, and it feels like the biggest compliment.
He hunches over, leaning on his elbows and rubs his face, letting out a long suffering sigh Patrick knows all too well.
It's the one he only uses whenever Patrick is being particularly charming.
A beat passes.
Patrick takes a deep breath. He has to be sure.
“Do you want me to go?” he asks.
Art slowly straightens up. He rubs his hair, fluffing it up even further in the proces.
He looks at Patrick.
“No.”
The hair falls into his eyes.
He moves closer, infinitely closer because personal space has never been part of their vocabulary. Art gazes up at him through those messy golden strands, and Patrick's heart skips a beat as his lips curve in a crooked smile.
“No, I don't want you to go, Patrick. Don't be stupid.”
“Good,” he says, failing to resist the temptation, he reaches up and brushes a curl away from his eyes, “‘cause I don't want to go.”
“Good,” Art says, and his smile grows almost wicked.
Patrick moves closer. Their noses nearly brush. He can smell him, the scent of his skin, beer and smoke and the mint of the gum he chews all day. He can smell him, his very own scent which has permeated each and every pillow Patrick has ever stolen from him, every t-shirt Patrick has dug out of the hamper or found on the floor, stealing it from Art or stealing it back because that's just what they do.
He knows his scent better than he knows his own and it is infinitely comforting and exhilarating. He wished he could bottle that scent and take it with him wherever he goes.
Suddenly Patrick can't wait another second. He needs him. Right this fucking second.
All the air has been sucked from the room. People are being noisy somewhere but he doesn't hear it. The AC doesn't work. It's blistering hot and the clock radio on the desk is tinnily blaring some noisy rock ballad.
Patrick can barely breathe.
Art keeps looking at him, keeps smiling, and Patrick feels like he's drowning.
“We're out of beer,” is what Art says next.
“I know,” Patrick responds and he has to touch him. Right the fuck now.
He can't help but let his fingers drop from Art's hair to that tempting bottom lip of his, sliding along his skin, tracing the lines of it, tugging it slightly downwards.
Art gasps softly.
Time stands still.
“Still want to get her number?” Art whispers after a moment.
Patrick shakes his head, curling his fingers to gently hold his chin.
They're staring at each other. He is diving in deep and drowning in the blue waters.
Patrick sees the moment Art fully realizes what's about to happen. He sees the way his eyes widen, the way his mouth drops open just the tiniest amount with Patrick's thumb still pressing on his lip, the way his breath comes out in gentle little puffs, hot and humid, the way his skin grows even hotter.
He sees the way Art's eyes rake all over him in return, pausing at his open shirt, which Patrick has definitely sniped from Art. He sees the way he's taking him in, the same way Patrick is, sees the way he's slowly inching closer, sees the way his tongue slowly moves forward and grazes the pad of his finger.
Patrick feels his mouth move to accommodate his finger, he slips it inside the velvet warmth of him and feels his tongue lap at him.
Heat pulses through his body at the sight of his best friend suckling away at his finger, eyes boring straight into his, and he nearly loses it when Art closes his lips around his thumb and gently suckles, applying a tiny bit of pressure that goes straight to his dick.
“Art–” Patrick breathes, because that's all he knows, all he feels, the only thing he knows for sure.
He wants him. Craves him. Needs him so fucking badly that he doesn't know what to do with himself, doesn't know where to begin.
Because this is a beginning. This is where it starts. This is new. And it's different. And it's them. It's always been them and it will keep being that way and this is just another chapter in their story.
And god dammit if Patrick is not going to make it the most memorable one yet.
He's going to show Art just how good he can be, show him that he's worth it, that he fucking excels at this.
He knows Art has fucked, just look at him– but this is Patrick's domain.
He wants to give it to him. Give it to him good. Give him the best night of his fucking life, show him just how special is he, how much he means– how much he matters.
He wants to make him feel so fucking good he forgets his own name, wants to give him all the kinds of pleasure he can think of. All those good things he denies himself, everything that life has to offer, he's going to give it to him tonight.
He wants Art to scream his name, to help him let go of all that control and discipline, that firm hand he has on himself, and he wants to wreck him, claim him, ruin him and put the pieces back together, make him his, and show the whole fucking world that Art Donaldson belongs to Patrick Zweig.
His and his alone.
He can't resist any longer.
He surges in, closes the distance between them for good. He captures those lips in his once again when he can't hold himself back any longer, growling as he pulls Art against himself. Planting himself firmly into his already nonexistent personal space.
Art moans obscenely as he kisses a path from his lips, along his nose and cheek, trailing his lips along that slicing curve of his excellent jaw, before mouthing greedily at his neck, the sensitive spot beneath his ear.
Art throws his head back, a breathy gasp slipping out as Patrick pulls him in even closer with a firm arm around his waist.
“Patrick–” he breathes, head lolling back, nearly climbing into Patrick's lap, “Patrick, Patrick – what are we– we shouldn't–”
Another gasp is wrought from him as Patricks suckles a possessive hickey into his skin, working the sensitive flesh between his teeth and growling as he catches the faintest hint of the skin breaking.
“Do you want me to stop?” he mumbles against him, slowing down for a moment to give Art the chance to catch his breath.
He shakes his head.
“I want–” Art starts but gets cut off by a breathy gasp as Patrick begins leaving tiny little kisses along his throat, gentle and slow, lingering and sultry.
“I–I’m– you should– Patrick–”
“Should I stop?” he asks again as he mouths at his adams apple, hand secured firmly around his waist, the other slowly sliding up his strong thigh.
Art sighs into him, pushing his body further into Patrick's grip.
“Don't you– don't you dare fucking stop–” he gets out and Patrick doesn't waste a second before trailing his teeth down the column of his throat, catching on the sharp line of his collarbone.
“Keep doing– like that–”
Art groans.
“Do you want me to keep going?” Patrick teases, knows that Art can hear the smirk in his voice, knows that it's pissing him off.
Knows that he needs to keep asking so Art can keep telling him yes. He has to make it some sort of game. So Art can allow himself to accept the pleasure Patrick is so willingly offering.
He looks up at him, catches Art’s expression as it drifts further and further into desperation, nodding fervently. His cheeks are deliciously flushed and he looks, if possible, even more wrecked than he did after their little make out session earlier.
Patrick's smirks, eyes boring into Art’s hooded gaze and he knows it's almost time.
“Please,” Art gets out, swallowing thickly and licking his lips “please– more.”
His eyes drop to Patrick's lips and he looks so fucking hungry that Patrick has to steel himself not to blow his load then and there.
Fuck, he wants this. Has wanted this for so long. And now he has his best friend in his arms and all he wants to do is kiss him, and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until neither of them can breathe, and tomorrow can wait, the finals can wait, fucking tennis can wait, because Art said please, and if there's one person in the entire world Patrick simply cannot deny a single thing, it's Art when he's asking. Pleading. Begging.
There is nothing Patricks wants more than to deliver his every wish.