ONE
> wuu2
Art looks down at the sound of his text tone—the little ‘thwock’ from Wii Sports tennis. He flips his phone open.
not much, u?
> busy?
nah
> come ovr. rm8 iz out.
He presses his lips together. “Hey, Pat?” he calls, darting over to the mirror and checking his hair.
“Mm?” Patrick replies, rousing from his Sunday afternoon haze and pulling an earbud out.
“We’ve gotta postpone Spider-Man tonight.”
“What?” Patrick sits up, indignant. “You’re kidding, we’ve had this planned for weeks! This is the only night until May that we don’t have early practise tomorrow!”
“Yeah, but… Bridget texted.”
Patrick groans, flopping back onto his bed. “Fucking Bridget. She’s verbally third-wheeling us, man. Every single conversation, all you ever talk about is Bridget .”
“She’s cool! And her roommate is away right now, so…” Art replies, taking off his loose gray t-shirt and grabbing a light pink button-up.
“Great. The sex shirt.”
Art pauses, shirt halfway over his head. “The what ?”
“That’s the shirt you wear every single time you’re off to hook up with somebody.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I own a million shirts—”
“Yeah, but that’s the sex shirt.”
“You’re crazy,” Art scoffs, buttoning it and rolling up his sleeves. He glances back to the mirror, making sure they’re the same length.
“I’ve watched you do this one million times. Right now, it’s Bridget. Last month, it was Amy. From November through January, it was Rachel .” Patrick does a mock shudder of disgust. “Actually, Bridget’s not so bad. Rachel was terrible. But all of them have seen this shirt.”
“I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, should I ask? Amy was my lab partner in 10th grade and I still have her number—”
“Do not do that.”
“Listen, it’s not a bad thing. You’re a creature of habit, and it’s not like the shirt looks bad on you or anything… it’s just that every time I see it, all I can think of is you going down on Rachel.”
Art is already pulling the shirt off. “Since when have you hated Rachel so much? She has a great backhand.”
“Yeah, but her overhead…” Patrick tilts his hand back and forth. So-so.
“Whatever. Bridget’s overhead is excellent.” He grabs two shirts from his closet and holds them up to Patrick. “Green or yellow?”
“Green. You only think that because you haven’t seen Maggie play. She’s a beast,” Patrick brags, tucking his hands under his head.
Art starts to button the green shirt, having to try again on the third one. “Now who’s verbally third wheeling?”
“Not the same. I haven’t got a new one every month.”
“No, instead you’ve got a parade of blondes through here every weekend. Bet the only reason I don’t know any of their names is that you forgot them,” Art jabs. His hand slips off the third button again.
Patrick sighs, rolling out of bed to take the buttons out of Art’s hands. “Not my fault I’m the hottest shit here since Federer.”
“Roger Federer didn’t go here.” Art tips his chin up, giving Patrick the space to finish doing up his buttons. He rolls Art’s sleeves, goosebumps running up his arms as Patrick’s fingers brush the inside of his elbow.
“Yeah, well, you know what I mean.” Patrick brushes off Art’s shoulders, giving him a once-over. “Go get ‘em, tiger. Guess me and Toby will be all on our lonesome tonight…”
Art’s shoulders tense. Patrick hooks up with other girls, sure, but he doesn’t usually bring home guys. “Toby? Who’s Toby?”
“Maguire, idiot.”
“Oh,” Art exhales, relieved. “Wait—don’t watch it without me!”
“Sorry, bud—missed your chance. I’m gonna spoil it so hard when you get back,” Patrick grins, pulling out the DVD bin from under his bed.
Another ‘thwock’ sounds from Art’s phone.
> hello?? u coming??
He rolls his eyes, focusing his attention back on Patrick as he starts to type. “Come on, we’ll watch it later! Don’t do this to me, Pat.”
ya sry. pat bitching @ me
Patrick groans. “Fine. You know I can’t say no to that puppy dog face.”
Art presses a hasty, indelicate bro-kiss to Patrick’s forehead. “Promise I’ll make it up to you,” he says.
“Yeah, you better,” Patrick grumbles. He lays back in his bed, puts his earbud back in, and closes his eyes. Art pulls his shoes on, glancing back at Patrick as he opens the door. He smiles, shakes his head, and lets the door close behind him.
TWO
“What are you thinking for the Gatsby project?” Art asks. Patrick looks down at him, lying sideways across the twin bed and on top of Patrick’s legs. Art’s own legs are straight up against the wall, the tips of his hair brushing the floor. Patrick loves when Art gets like this. He’s like a dog—if he doesn’t go for his daily walk, he’ll stick himself to your side until he is entertained. Today has been a perfect storm—literally. The outdoor tennis courts have been flooded by the torrential rain pounding against their windows, and the indoor courts are having the floors replaced, so practise was cancelled and Art is bouncing off the walls.
“Dunno. How far through are you?” Patrick can’t help staring at the stomach exposed by Art’s stretch toward the floor.
Art reaches back, bracing both hands on the floor, palms flat. “Done.” His face is flushing pink from the blood rush.
“Oh. Shit.”
“What does ‘oh shit’ mean in this context?”
“Haven’t started.”
Art sits up, knees on either side of Patrick’s legs. “Are you serious?”
“What? It’s not due for another month! I’ve got time.”
“Yeah, and we were supposed to be reading it for all of last month!”
Patrick rolls his eyes, pulling Art closer by the hem of his shirt. “You’re only bitching about this because you’re all cooped up.”
“I’m not allowed to care about your academic standing anymore?” Art scoffs. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“C’mon, I’ll read it later.” Patrick leans in and kisses Art’s throat.
“You can’t just make out with my neck every time you don’t wanna do homework, Pat,” he laughs, head tilting back.
“Tell me about it, then.” Patrick kisses the corner of his jaw. Art shoots him a look. “What? You say I need to read The Great Gatsby , so explain it to me. Besides, what else are you gonna do with your time? We’re practically trapped in here. Shut up in close quarters, nothing to do but rely on each other for entertainment… for stimulation …”
Art rolls his shoulders in discomfort at the reminder of his boredom. Pent-up energy rolls off him in waves as he leans into Patrick’s touch. “You’re an asshole.”
“We can go sit in silence on separate beds, if you want.” Patrick looks back up at him, eyebrow raised.
“Of course I don’t fucking want that. Get back to work, Zweig.” Art huffs, and Patrick obeys. He bites Art’s shoulder through his t-shirt. “Have you really read none of it? Do you even know what the book is about?” Art asks.
“Something about the American Dream…” Patrick hums, mouthing above his collarbones.
“That’s the main thing, yeah. This guy Nick—God, that fucking tickles—he moves out to the new money part of New York. He’s neighbors with Gatsby, who throws crazy parties like every night and calls everybody ‘old sport’.”
“Sounds like my kinda guy…” Patrick slides his hands up the back of Art’s shirt, making him shiver.
“Just wait. It gets fucked up. So Nick has a cousin, Daisy, who lives in the old money part of New York with her husband, uh—James. Or something. Anyways, Gatsby finds this out and wants Nick to arrange a meeting between them because he’s in love with her. And he spends all his time staring at the green light at the end of the dock across the bay. ‘Cause… Because Daisy lives across the bay.”
Patrick, admittedly, never could focus on anything else when Art was so close to him. Especially like this, eyes closed, breath hitching, practically in Patrick’s lap. He loves to distract him, loves the way Art trails off in the middle of a sentence when Patrick’s teeth or nails dig into his skin. Fuck, he even tastes good—the salt of his sweat in this humid room mixing with the citrus of his soap. It’s fucking intoxicating. Patrick closes his eyes and inhales.
When he zones back in, Art is still, somehow, talking about the book. “Then Daisy’s husband tells everyone that Gatsby’s a fucking bootlegger… ‘cause this is during prohibition, and when they get back to West Egg, Gatsby has hit Daisy’s husband’s mistress with his car—oh yeah, Daisy’s husband was cheating on her and earlier he broke the mistress’ nose ‘cause she was talking shit about Daisy. Either way, she’s dead now. Then Daisy’s husband’s mistress’ husband—ow, Patrick, gentle—the mistress’ husband shoots Gatsby and then himself. And Nick moves back to the Midwest.”
Patrick pulls back. Art meets his eyes. “Is that it? That’s where it ends?”
“Yep. And the whole thing is that the American dream isn’t about, like, being happy or whatever anymore, it’s just about getting rich and having mistresses.”
“Goddamn. Maybe I should give the book a chance.”
“I kind of liked it. And pretty short, so you won’t fry your poor little brain.”
“Fuck you, too.” Patrick reaches over to the bedside table to grab his beaten-up school copy of The Great Gatsby . He opens to the first page.
Art blinks at him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m reading, Arthur. What are you doing?”
“I’m bricked like a fucking house. Read that later.” He takes the book out of Patrick’s hands and tosses it to the floor.
Patrick laughs, letting Art haul him up by the shirt collar to kiss him. “Whatever you say, old sport.”
THREE
When Art’s phone rings, his physiotherapist’s thumbs are so deep in his shoulder Art swears they’re going to punch right through his armpit. He glances down at the little screen. Patrick. Art doesn’t answer, flipping it shut. He usually picks up when someone calls him out of the blue like this, but Patrick has the terrible habit of calling Art at all hours of the day and night. Every time he has more than five minutes of solo monotony, he calls Art. Doing laundry. Walking between classes. Alone in their room. No matter what it is, Art hears about it. It’s endearing, really. Patrick cannot be alone with his thoughts.
The phone rings again. Art sighs, lips tugging to a smile.
“…Do you need to get that?” his physio, George, asks, pausing the bruising massage.
“No. He’ll be fine.”
Not even a minute passes before Patrick calls once more.
“Seems like you should probably get that,” George laughs.
“Yeah… Sorry. It’s my roommate. He’s got separation anxiety,” Art replies. “Mind if I answer really quick here? He’ll hang up once he gets bored again.”
George shrugs. “Fine by me.”
Art flips the phone open. “What?”
“Where are you?” Patrick asks, his voice tinny through the speaker.
“Physio. What about you?” Art rolls his eyes for George’s benefit.
“Home. Alone. When are you done?”
“I don’t know, like, twenty minutes? We just got started.”
Patrick groans, and Art can hear his head hitting the pillow. “Hurry the fuck up. I’m bored out of my mind.”
“I’m only two buildings away, Pat. You know, if you start reading a book now, you might make it to the end of the page by the time I’m back.”
“I don’t know where you got the idea that I don’t know how to read, but frankly—” Patrick cuts himself off at the sound of Art grunting. George has finished his massage and has switched to stretching, one of his hands flat in between Art’s shoulderblades and the other at his elbow, gently pressing it over his head. It’s unpleasant. “Who’ve you got?” Patrick asks.
“George. Say hi, George.” Art holds the phone out with his free hand.
“Hey, Patrick. How’s the elbow?” George calls.
“Fucking grand, George,” Patrick grumbles.
“He’s very grateful, he just has bad manners,” Art promises, returning the phone to his ear.
“Stop talking about me like I’m your damn dog.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Woof woof,” Patrick deadpans.
“Don’t you have anyone else to bother?”
“Yeah, but why bother them when I can bother you? And George, that bastard. Those stretches he had me doing… Inhumane.”
“Maybe ‘cause you only ever remembered to do them in the 30 minutes before your next appointment,” Art scoffs, looking over at George like can you believe this guy ? George shrugs in return, trying not to smile.
“You’re such a dick-rider. I can hear you two making fun of me. It’s in your voice,” Patrick huffs. In the background, something crinkles.
“Are you eating my Doritos?” he asks.
A long pause. A crunch. “No.”
“I’m really going to kill you.”
“This is just payback for abandoning me. It’s a beautiful spring day, Donaldson! We should be frolicking!”
“Can’t frolick if my shoulder is so fucked up my arm doesn’t move, Zweig .”
“These are the sorts of material worries that fall away when one frolicks.”
“Okay, Fido. We can go run around outside as soon as I’m done here.”
“Don’t act like you’re above running around outside. I see the way you get when it’s rainy.”
“I’m hanging up. See you later, man.”
“Tell George he’d better go easy on your wimpy—”
True to his word, Art hangs up, switching his phone all the way off.
“Sorry about that,” he tells George, letting him manipulate his limbs into another painful position—lying him back on the table and stretching his affected arm across his body.
“Don’t worry about it. You guys are a good pair.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. Like brothers. You’re a good influence on him.”
Art has to close his eyes to keep from laughing. “Thank you, George. I’ll tell him that.”
FOUR
Watching the way Art carries himself is one of the great joys of Patrick’s life. He feels like he’s always watching Art, cataloguing his movements like he’s a specimen in a museum. This is how Art shoots his cuffs. This is how Art adjusts his bowtie. This is how Art watches him back, something soft and elusive about his expression that Patrick can’t quite catch.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Art turns away, just barely smiling.
“What, Art?” Patrick asks, elbowing him in the side.
“Ow! Jesus, I was going to say you clean up nice, but now I’m recanting it,” Art says, attempting to jab him right back, but Patrick side-steps.
“Too late. I heard it and I accept the compliment,” Patrick preens, straightening his tie.
They’re both dressed to the nines. Patrick all in blues—navy suit, light blue shirt, tie coloured somewhere between the two—and Art in black, down to his polished oxfords. It makes him look an angel that tripped and became a mob boss, all blonde curls and awkward fidgeting with a jet-black bowtie. They’re at Art’s sister’s wedding in Vermont, Patrick spending the trip so far whining about missing his spring break and Art spending it rolling his eyes anytime anyone mentions his sister’s fiancé.
“Whatever. You do look good. Especially compared to Jeff and his stupid hair,” he scoffs, leaning back on the bar, arms crossed, and watching the newlyweds revolve around the dance floor. “And seriously, ‘She Will Be Loved’? As your first fucking dance?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s all kind of sweet.” Patrick says, mimicking Art’s posture subconsciously.
“Come on, Patrick. Don’t abandon me here.” Art glances over at him, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his obviously foul mood.
“I’m just saying! I know you hate him, but Jeff seems like a really genuine guy. I mean, he started crying during the middle of his vows.”
“Yeah, he’s a wimp. When he came to Thanksgiving, he made my grandmother put her ancient beagle in the other room because it ‘barked at him’. I thought that thing was taxidermy until I was twelve.”
“Okay, well, fair enough. But at least Lily’s happy, right?”
Art sighs. “At least.”
They lapse into silence as the song ends, Lily standing on her tiptoes to kiss Jeff on the cheek. Art makes a noise of revulsion as the crowd cheers.
“You don’t look so bad yourself, you know,” Patrick volunteers in consolation.
“Stupid Jeff and his stupid fucking groomsman getup…” Art tugs at his collar like it’s too tight. It’s not. It fits him perfectly—it’s distracting.
“Jesus Christ, Art! He’s her husband, not her jailer. You’re gonna see him like three times a year. Calm down,” Patrick laughs.
“And I’ll be right next to him in wedding photos forever.”
“How horrible. Your sister’s husband respects you enough to make you his best man.”
“No way it was his call. I think he’s scared I’m going to start throwing tennis balls at him.” As Art says this, Jeff looks their way. He swallows nervously. Art and Patrick give an identical wave. “Asshole,” Art mutters under his breath.
“You fascinate me, Arthur.”
“Thank you, Pat.”
“Wanna get out of here? I think there’s a bathroom stall with our names on it…” Patrick presses into his side as the next song starts to play—‘DARE’. Guests flood the dance floor.
Art looks over at him, eyeing him from head to toe. “Mm. Later,” he says, in that tone he gets when he really, really means it. “You seriously do clean up nice.”
“Well, if you’re staying to keep an eye on the new Mr. Donaldson, you’ll get a better angle from the dance floor.” Patrick pushes off the bar, offering him a hand.
Finally, a real smile breaks through on Art’s face. “Yeah, alright.” He slaps his palm into Patrick’s, pulling them both to the middle of the room.
Patrick has always had to coax Art into dancing. He doesn’t know why tonight is different—Patrick wonders if it has something to do with that same soft, elusive look he catches on his face once more. Or maybe it’s just Gorillaz. Either way, he believes him when Art catches his eye through the crush of the dance floor to mouth ‘ later ’.
FIVE
Patrick slams the door shut behind them when they get back to their room. He drops his stuff on the floor and walks away from Art without a word.
“Come on, Patrick…” Art rolls his eyes, leaning against the wall and watching Patrick towel off his face with every ounce of anger he can muster.
“What? What could I possibly have to say to you right now?” He doesn’t even look at him.
“I don’t know, could try ‘sorry’?”
Patrick stops in his tracks, turning slowly to face Art. “Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice is positively frigid.
Art doesn’t back down, keeping his demeanor neutral and light. “No, I’m not fucking kidding you. I don’t think that was totally my fault.”
“You signalled for me to poach, so I did. How is that on me?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t . Closed fist, Pat—that means stay in your lane,” Art bites.
Patrick drops the towel to the floor, coming to stand right in Art’s personal space. Usually when he’s mad, Patrick is grinning, easygoing. Art doesn’t like how still he’s being. It’s unnerving.
“We should have won that match. We should have won that tournament . I mean, fuck, Art, we were playing against James-K.-fucking-Polk High School. It’s embarrassing .”
“Since when are you a sore loser?”
“Jesus Christ.” Patrick drags a hand down his face. “And you know what, it wasn’t just that last match, either. You’ve been throwing me off all day, against Central, against Ridgemont. I mean, when I asked if you wanted anything from the canteen, you said ‘surprise me’! What sort of fucking answer is that?”
“What the hell has gotten you so pissy all of a sudden? Are you on your period or something? We’ve lost before, Patrick!”
Patrick gives an irate chuckle. “I’m going to tell your mom you said that. I’m not joking, I’m seriously going to tell her. See how fucking high and mighty you are then.”
“I’m just saying, contrary to what you seem to think, we aren’t the best tennis players on the planet.”
“No, I know! Believe me, I know! It’s just—if you would sort out your fucking signals, we could be!” he laughs, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m sick and fucking tired of sitting here waiting around for you to figure that out, Art.”
Art raises an eyebrow at him. “We’re eighteen years old, man. We've got time.”
“That’s such a typical Art Donaldson thing to say. Fuck do you mean, ‘we’ve got time’? You only get so many years in this sport. It’s embarrassing to still be doing this shit when you’re forty. And you’re just going to let all that slip away because, what, ‘we’ve got time’? Fuck you, dude.”
Art doesn’t reply. Patrick is breathing heavily, throat flushed red in anger.
“Can’t you just take something you want for once in your fucking life?” Patrick’s voice is low, his face so close to Art’s that in other circumstances, he’d be staring at his lips. Instead, he looks him in the eyes. Art finds it hard to look right at Patrick at the best of times. Now, that usual intensity has been amplified by one hundred. Patrick’s stares at him like he’s trying to light him on fire, like he’s looking for something that won’t burn away.
Art is the one to burst his bubble. “Are we still talking about tennis?” he whispers.
Patrick laughs, dry, without any humour. It’s not any better than that burning, searching look. He steps away. “Sure. Fine. We’re talking about tennis. That’s all we’ll ever fucking talk about.”
Art’s chest feels hollow without Patrick so close to him. “I guess so.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
Art looks away. Patrick scoffs.
“Fine.” He grabs his towel off the floor. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Patrick pulls the door open, but Art pushes it shut again, palm flat over Patrick’s head.
“And what the fuck do you want now?” he asks, the fire in his voice almost masking his confusion. Art doesn’t reply, gaze flicking over Patrick’s face. Nose. Mouth. Ears. Lips. He counts them like a grounding exercise, familiar to his eyes like prayer to his lips.
“I don’t wanna be talking about tennis,” he murmurs, pressing Patrick up against the door and kissing him fiercely, hand falling from above his head to cup his jaw. Immediately, Patrick kisses back, reaching up to wrap a hand around Art’s wrist, thumb over his pulse. This is not a feelings-heavy kiss, all teeth and tongues and sharp exhales. No, that’s not right, Art thinks. This is a very feelings-heavy kiss. He bites Patrick’s bottom lip.
“I’m still pissed at you.” Patrick says as they finally break away.
“Can’t we think about that later? We've—”
“If you say ‘we've got time' I’m gonna do something you’ll regret.”
Art grins and kisses him again.
SIX
It’s only noon outside, but inside the movie theatre is pitch-black. Art and Patrick are sat in the very back row, the only other patrons an elderly couple who Patrick thinks fell asleep during the trailers. He’s shocked they haven’t woken up yet, what with Clive Owen driving recklessly around corners through a rain of bullets.
Art reaches over to grab a handful of popcorn from the bucket between Patrick’s thighs. His other arm is taking up the whole armrest between them, a fact which Patrick is trying not to be annoyed by. This is the shittiest theatre in the city, with seats barely more than folding chairs crammed together like sardines.
All of a sudden, Art’s thigh is pressed against his own. The seats are close together, but not that close. Patrick looks over at him, but he seems fixed on the screen. Almost too fixed. Then Patrick notices his shirt—a light pink button-up. That sly bastard.
“What’s your game here?” Patrick whispers.
Art doesn’t look over at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit.”
He just bites back a smile, hand slipping from the armrest to fall innocently on Patrick’s thigh. Patrick exhales through his nose.
“I hate when you’re like this.”
“Shh. No you don’t.” His whisper carries a smile as he smooths his hand up and down Patrick’s leg, staying just shy of his target.
Patrick presses his lips together, fighting to stay focused on the movie. Julianne Moore is dead in the backseat of the car. Vaguely, Patrick wonders when that happened, but then Art palms his dick through his jeans, and he finds that he deeply does not care. “ Fuck ,” he breathes, moving the popcorn to the floor to allow Art better access.
He unzips Patrick’s jeans, spitting as quietly as he can into his palm before slipping his hand into Patrick’s boxers and slowly starting to stroke him up and down.
Patrick stretches his arm over the back of Art’s seat, hand clenched on his shoulder. “Goddamn, you’re showing real initiative today.”
“Hoping to earn my promotion,” Art murmurs back.
“You’re well on your fucking way.”
“I think I’d better make sure.” Art glances around to double check there’s nobody watching, and slips to his knees in front of Patrick.
“Holy shit. Sure you don’t wanna do this later?” he whispers, hand already tangling itself in Art’s hair.
“Nope. Now.” He glances up, eyebrows raised. “You?”
“Now, please. Yeah, now’s good.”
“So eager… so polite…” Art shuffles Patrick’s jeans down his thighs, pressing a kiss to the crook of his hip. He’s going to make some clever, witty comeback like ‘ nuh-uh’ when Art’s lips wrap around the tip of his cock, tongue running along the underside of his glans as his hand continues to work the shaft. Art’s free hand is wrapped around Patrick’s ankle, which almost makes Patrick laugh until Art takes him further into his mouth, bumping the back of his throat. He has to bite the side of his hand to keep from moaning out loud—things always get too noisy when Art is in this kind of mood.
A thought flashes through his head— how the hell did I get so lucky ? Which angel is looking out for him, blessing him with this tall, golden haired man who will go down on him in a theatre? Patrick says a silent prayer of thanks, free hand clenching in that gorgeous hair. Art hums in approval, sending shivers up Patrick’s whole body. Holy fucking shit.
The movie continues on around them, but Patrick has stopped even pretending to pay attention. All he can focus on is the dull pain of his teeth biting into his hand, the wet heat of Art’s mouth on his erection. Art looks up, meeting Patrick’s gaze, then darting away. God, even his inability to hold eye contact is hot—one time, Patrick made Art look right at him while he got him off. He came in under a minute, practically untouched. It was delicious .
Art shifts, one hand coming to rest on the exposed curve of Patrick’s ass and the other palming at his balls. Fuck, this is going to do him in. Art has gotten mathematically excellent at sucking cock, pulling off to mouth at the base and licking up the side before swallowing him again, deeper than before. The knot tightens in Patrick’s stomach, nearly pulled taut. He kind of wants to ask him where he learned it, but contents himself with murmuring “ Good, so good …” under his breath. He wants to praise him endlessly, to pepper kisses all over his face and fuck his throat until tears run down his cheeks, and if he thought he could’ve kept quiet while he did it, he would have.
Patrick closes his eyes, pressing his lips together as he takes his hand from his mouth to card again through Art’s hair, gently pushing him down further on his dick. Art’s nails dig into his back, a low, humming moan just barely audible under the voices onscreen. The sound echoes through Patrick’s head, and he has to take a deep breath in through his nose. He’s so fucking close. He looks down at Art to tell him this, features half-erased by the darkness, lips shining with saliva, and it’s too much. Patrick comes without warning, seeing Art’s eyes go wide for a moment before pulling back until just his tip is in his mouth. Patrick is sure he makes some embarrassing noise, brushing a thumb over Art’s eyebrow. He is so good .
Fog clouds over Patrick’s senses as he comes out the other side of his orgasm. He’s vaguely aware of Art as he strokes him up and down a couple more times, tucks him back into his boxers, and pulls some tissues out of his pocket to spit delicately into. Never was a swallower. The next time Patrick blinks, Art is sitting back next to him like nothing's happened. He pops a piece of gum into his mouth, offering the same to Patrick.
“Came fucking prepared, didn’t you?” Patrick whispers, doing his fly back up.
Art shrugs. “I was a boy scout.”
“Don’t say that to me right now. Jesus.” He accepts the piece of gum, watching Art watch the movie.
“Did I miss anything?” Art asks.
Patrick blinks at him, dumbfounded. “What about that experience makes you think I would know?”
They look at each other for a moment before breaking out into loud, pent-up laughter, waking the old people sat way in front of them. They look over their shoulders, shooting Art and Patrick a dirty look. Once they’ve turned away again, Patrick pulls Art by his shirt collar into a kiss, still half laughing. He tastes like mint and salt.
“Fucking sex shirt…” he mumbles against his lips. God, this is going to be the end of him.
Later, when asked if he enjoyed the movie, Patrick simply says that it was memorable.