self control - wishicouldunderstand - Challengers (Movie 2024) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter Text

Fall, 2009

For years, Art and Patrick didn’t speak.

After the injury, Art had expected Patrick to flood his inbox with messages, maybe come to his dorm and demand to talk to him. He’d even planned a whole speech for when he’d finally cave and respond. But it was radio silence from Patrick, and Art couldn’t fathom the idea of reaching out first.

He lost touch with Tashi, too. She left Stanford soon after it became clear she’d never be able to play well again. “There’s nothing left for me here,” she said to Art matter-of-factly as she packed her entire dorm into two tiny cardboard boxes. They texted a little after she left, but not enough to save their friendship.

So Art filled the nebulous Tashi/Patrick hole in his life with tennis. A lot of tennis. He got better and better, and wished there was someone in the stands to watch him play. Tashi, Patrick, his parents, anyone.

Loneliness seeped into every aspect of his life. He often found himself half-asleep, grasping for a warm body on the other side of the bed, despite the fact that there’d never been one there. Not since Patrick, of course.

The wet dreams were a natural escalation.

They started familiarly. Perfumed, soft bodies folding into his, the curve of a woman’s hip and the arch of her back. Digestible stuff. Then, the faceless bodies morphed to be lean and hairy, breasts flattened into strong chests, and everything became rougher. It wasn’t a first for Art, but it was still upsetting.

He’d accepted that he had some… proclivities. He didn’t particularly like it, but he accepted it. But when the subject of his dreams grew a face, and that face was decidedly Patrick’s, that was too far.

In the dream, Patrick f*cked him with a racket. Art had never had anything up his ass except a few wandering fingers, but his imagination filled in the gaps. Patrick’s hands held him down, his lips spilled quiet praises, his co*ck ground into his legs. It was horrible. A nightmare, really.

It’s when Art woke up panting and having made a mess of his boxers, that he realized something had to change. He peeled himself from the mattress, eyeing the sticky stain he’d left on the sheets, having leaked through his underwear, and thought, I need to get laid. In the early morning moonlight, every shadow in his room looked like Patrick.

He decided he’d try it once, just to get it out of his system. He met a guy in a bar that looked enough like Patrick to light a fire in his stomach, and let the stranger open him up in his sh*tty apartment. He wasn’t very gentle, and he came after about a minute surrounded by tight heat, but something in Art shifted that night. He couldn’t get enough.

So he slept around. He was nowhere near famous enough to require much discretion, but still, he’d drive dozens of miles away and hole himself up in the corners of seedy bars, nursing a Modelo and prowling the crowd for his next adventure.

That’s how he ended up in a sh*thole called something like Unicorn Vomit or Fairy Dust in the boonies of Colorado. He’d won a challenger and decided to reward himself with some good, mindless fun.

Art used his winnings to buy himself a ridiculously expensive co*cktail, garnished with a charred lemon. He finished it quickly, and sucked on the lemon absentmindedly as he scanned the dancefloor for his next hookup. As an insufferable pop song ends, the DJ starts playing something all too familiar.

“Take Me Out” by Franz Ferdinand brought an avalanche of memories. Years earlier, during their boarding school days, Patrick had downloaded the song (illegally) onto his iPod. He and Art would listen to it often, sharing earbuds, puffing cigarettes and lip-syncing every word. The earbuds were always horribly tangled, so they’d lean in close, so close that Art could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed in the smoke. It was a bittersweet memory.

When Art spotted Patrick, gliding across the floor with messy hair and a tight T-shirt, he thought he was hallucinating. The timing was too good, kismet in a way that made his stomach turn.

So if you’re lonely, the lyrics started.

Patrick hadn’t noticed him yet. He was swaying slightly to the music, surveying the dancefloor like he was looking for something.

You know I’m here, waiting for you.

Art’s legs were moving before his brain could process that a decision was made. The tastes of lemon and gin burned on his tongue.

I’m just a cross-hair,

He crossed the bar floor in record time, the crowd seeming to divide like the parting of the Red Sea, until he was feet away from Patrick. He noted Patrick’s ratty tennis shoes, contrasting against the sleek checkerboard of the dance floor. When his eyes flicked back up, Patrick had noticed him.

I’m just a shot away from you.

In what seemed like less than a second, Patrick was on him, hugging him tightly. The music faded into the background as the air was squeezed from Art’s lungs. It was chaste, and when he pulled away, his eyes shined. “Funny seeing you here.”

“Likewise,” Art countered.

“I saw you win the challenger. You played well. Better than me.”

“I know.”

There was a fraction of a beat before Art followed up with, “Want a cigarette?”

I know I won’t be leaving here with you, the music contradicted.

For a moment, Patrick just looked at him. Stared at him with terribly intense green eyes, let his gaze flicker from Art’s forehead, to his nose, to his lips, and linger there. When they darted back up to make contact with Art’s, he shivered. He felt naked.

When the music picked back up, Patrick smirked and looked away, as if to check if anyone had caught them. “Sure,” he said, voice gravelly.

The bitter fall air was cool against Art’s lips, stinging against the spit there, and he hadn’t even realized he’d licked them. While the parking lot was relatively empty, they still dipped into the alley beside the bar wordlessly, as if they both understood that this was a secret, scandalous thing.

Patrick pulled out a pack of menthol Camels, smirking to himself as Art pulled out an identical pack. He lit his own cigarette with a gas station lighter and wordlessly handed it to Art. Art tried to focus on the task at hand, but found his mind drifting to the way Patrick’s cheekbones jutted out as he wrapped his lips around his cigarette and sucked. He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

“Why are you here?” Art asked, trying not to sound too accusatory.

“At the Rainbow Connection?” Patrick flashed a Cheshire grin.

“In Colorado.”

The ends of their cigarettes glowed like fireflies. “I was in the Challenger. Wiped out pretty early.”

Art chuckled, “Typical.”

They spent a few moments not saying anything, Patrick ashing and letting the soot fall over his tennis shoes. Art thought, for a second, that they’d stand there in silence and part without a word. Maybe they wouldn’t see each other again for several more years. It made him anxious, and he flicked his cigarette.

Patrick broke the silence, “So? Why are you here?”

“In Colorado?” Art echoed dumbly. He knew that wasn’t what he meant.

“No,” Patrick co*cked his head towards the brick building with a crooked smile, “At the Rainbow Connection.”

Art considered his response carefully, taking a long drag to buy himself some time.

“I think you can connect those dots on your own.”

Patrick laughed at that, a boisterous, co*cky gesture, “I knew it.”

“What?”

“That you swung that way.”

Art didn’t mention that he wasn’t sure which direction he swung at all, or that the thought of being anything but straight terrified him. “f*ck off.”

He heard the music change inside. It was muffled but sounded gentler— a ballad.

“You still talk to Tashi?” Patrick blew smoke out of the side of his mouth, but it still ended up in Art’s face, somehow.

“No. We fell out of touch after-”

Art didn’t finish his sentence. Patrick understood, surely.

The brunet hummed, turning his lighter over in his fingers absently. They fell into burning silence again, but this time, their eyes stayed on each other. Art took in the angles of his face, the hints of stubble around his jaw that he must have missed shaving, the curve of his nose. Patrick did the same, eyes dancing over his face, before dropping to his waist as he sucked on his cigarette. While his head was still angled down, he looked up at Art through his eyelashes darkly. Art suddenly felt the need to adjust himself in his pants.

As their cigarettes dwindled down, they inched closer to each other. Somehow, Patrick ended up leaning against the wall with his shoulder grazing Art’s, and his dirty shoes millimeters away from Art’s pristine sneakers.

Patrick, who always seemed to beat Art, finished his cigarette first, tossing it to the ground. “C’mon. We can take my car.”

“Where are we going?”

Patrick raised an eyebrow, not buying Art’s ignorance. “Well, my motel’s a sh*thole, so probably yours. Where are you staying? The Ritz?”

Art leaned backward, “What do you think is happening here?” He hoped his words would sound cutting, but really he just sounded pathetic. Like he wanted Patrick to scandalize him. Maybe he did.

“I think we’re probably gonna have sex,” Patrick said casually, as if he was ordering a drink.

Art sputtered, coughing out a thick cloud of smoke. “Why would you think that?”

Patrick’s eyes drifted over to the neon rainbow sign jutting from the side of the building that bathed them in colored light.

“You clearly came here looking for something. I doubt you’d leave without it.”

Art’s heart pounded violently. His depleted cigarette burned at his fingertips, and he threw it to the pavement, hissing as he sucked at his fingers. Patrick, like the demon he was, grabbed Art’s wrist and wrenched it towards him, replacing Art’s mouth with his own. He swirled his tongue around the burned fingertips, and the stinging slowly melted away. Patrick tried to maintain eye contact, but Art looked away, clenching his other fist and trying not to pop a boner in the alleyway like a virgin.

Patrick popped off of his fingers with a small sound, lips glistening with spit as he smiled.

“You’re disgusting,” Art let out weakly, wiping his wet fingers on his jeans.

“You love it. Where are you staying?”

It pained Art to respond, “The Ritz.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and fished his keys out of his pocket. He spun on his heel, marching towards the parking lot, and didn’t glance back once to check if Art was following him. He knew he was.

Patrick’s car was a mess— ashes in the cup holder, peeling stickers on the console, crinkled water bottles on the floor. It was a great contrast to Art’s shiny new jeep, and he cast a sidelong, weary look to it as they left the parking lot. Taking Patrick’s car may have been a mistake.

Anxious to pass the time, Art began flicking through a CD case that had been shoved between the seats.

He rolled his eyes at the ludicrous amount of brit-pop Patrick had collected and was pleasantly surprised by an obscure Björk album. As he reached the end, he noticed Patrick watching him out of the corner of his eye, choking the steering wheel.

“Eyes on the road, please,” Art snapped half-heartedly as he flipped past a scratched Gorillaz disc. Patrick said nothing, eyes returning uneasily to the street ahead of them. When Art reached the end of the collection, he understood why Patrick had been nervous.

‘FOR PATRICK, 2004’ read the smudged sharpie adorning a CD, tucked into the very last sleeve. Art’s breath caught in his throat. He’d forgotten about that.

“You kept this?” He asked quietly, turning the disc around in his fingers, taking note of the fingerprints that suggested it had been well-loved.

Patrick didn’t have to turn his head to know what Art was asking about. He swallowed. “Of course.”

“How does it hold up?” Art layered the question with a certain teasing accusation: I know you still listen to it. I know you pop it in the player, and mouth every word, and think of me.

Patrick shook his head a bit, undoubtedly caught in Art’s trap. “It has a few scratches, but it’s still good. You always had taste.”

Sheepish at the compliment, Art forgoes thanks and pops the disc into the player.

There was a beat of grainy silence before Art’s pubescent voice rang out: “ Happy birthday Patrick. I love you, man. ”

Present-day Art laughed, covering his face with his hands. “Jesus Christ. I sound like I’m 10.”

“That’s my favorite part,” Patrick giggled.

The beginning notes of a song started then, and a memory of hunching over his desk, scribbling a tracklist over and over again hit Art like a truck. It was a moody acoustic guitar piece, which he immediately recognized as David Bowie’s “Starman”.

Art opened his mouth to speak, but Bowie cut him off, and he let himself fall into quiet appreciation.

The city lights danced past them, reflecting off the hood of the car and onto Patrick’s unreadable face. His brows were slightly furrowed, but the slightest hint of a grin tugged at his lips. Art decided he shouldn’t stare.

As the song ended, Patrick finally let his smile break. “I think that song was the first time I started to suspect you were gay.”

Art’s eyes widened. “But I’m not, though.”

“What?”

“Gay.” The word fell from Art’s mouth like a cartoon piano, shattering on the proverbial pavement with an ugly cacophony of notes.

Patrick shot him a cursory look, before settling his gaze back on the road. “Right. Me neither.”

Art should’ve known Patrick wouldn’t leave it at that. He cleared his throat, before continuing, “Just an enjoyer of gay sex, then?”

Art curled into himself, pressing his face against the window in a vain attempt to cool his warming cheeks. “Shut up.”

The hotel parking lot was desolate. but Patrick still opted to park on the very edge, far from any other car. The walk to the lobby was long and slightly awkward, the air buzzing with anticipation.

The receptionist looked up when they walked in, shooting them a knowing look before burying her nose back in her magazine. Art dug his nails into his palm, heart thumping. It was one thing being with a guy in a gay club, no one batted an eye. But bringing a very male guest up to his room late at night? He wondered what people thought when they saw Patrick, trailing behind him like an eager dog chasing a treat.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, Patrick was invading Art’s personal space, crowding him against the wall. His smoky breath fanned across Art’s lips, and his eyes traveled wildly over his face. For a heartbeat, Art thought he’d feel the slide of Patrick’s tongue in his mouth again, for the first time in years— but he seemed to enjoy making Art squirm at the proximity alone.

When the elevator screeched to a halt on the fourth floor, Patrick sprung off of him, leaning against the opposite wall as an older woman stepped inside. Smooth jazz echoed through the small car, and the older woman nodded her head along, staring straight forward. Art tried to ignore Patrick’s burning gaze, eyes resting on his lopsided smirk.

“Nice weather, huh?” Patrick asked the woman, always desperate to charm. She supplied him with a tight smile in lieu of a response.

Finally, they made it to the ninth floor. Art and Patrick shuffled out of the elevator, nodding cordially at the other passenger as the doors clamped shut.

The hallway seemed to stretch into oblivion as they walked. Patrick trailed just a pace behind Art, following his lead. After what felt like a lifetime of walking, they arrived at Art’s room. He fumbled with the keycard for a good minute, trying to find the right angle, before the door finally unlocked with a soft click.

It felt all too real once they crossed the threshold. Art exhaled shakily, crossing the room to switch on the lamp with sweaty hands. When he turned around, Patrick had kept following him, and they were face-to-face in the soft glow of the yellow light. Art averted his eyes, digging into the skin of his palms harshly.

“Hey,” Patrick cooed as he chased Art’s gaze, ducking his head, “Relax.”

Art’s tense shoulders dropped, and he let all the air in his lungs escape. He was breathless when he met Patrick’s dark eyes. Catching him off gaurd, Patrick reached for the hand he’d been nervously picking, stilling his movement. The pads of his fingers grazed against the scratches, and Art winced, trembling slightly. Patrick withdrew his hand like he’d been bit, and wandered over to the bed, crossing his arms behind his head as he reclined. Art felt jilted.

“We don’t have to do anything, y’know.” He scanned the room, taking in the outdated, sickly decor, until he spotted the boxy TV in the corner. “We could just watch QVC or something,” he continued with an amused expression.

Art crossed the room (almost tripping on the rug) and plopped down on the king bed, face down. He shoved his face into the pillow and exhaled, warming his nose, before twisting his neck to look at Patrick. “Ok.”

Neither of them made a move to get the remote. Patrick smiled co*ckily, and said, “You don’t want that, do you?”

Art blushed, looking away and shaking his head. Somehow, Patrick managed to make him feel like a kid again.

“What do you want, then?” Patrick rested a hand on the small of his back, tracing swirls into the bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. It made Art shiver, and he felt himself hardening in his jeans. “I don’t know,” he mumbled into the pillow.

Patrick pushed his thumb into the muscle of Art’s lower back, massaging a knot that had grown there from too much tennis and not enough stretching. Art arched his back subtly, and the delicious pressure of the mattress against his co*ck made him see stars. He was getting worked up embarrassingly fast.

Patrick, observant as ever, spoke with an audible smile in his voice. “Show me.”

Art begrudgingly peeled himself from the mattress and flipped onto his back. From this new angle, Patrick could see his erection. He started at it with unabashed hunger. The sudden urge to put on a show surged through Art, and he tilted his hips up off the bed, giving the air a tiny thrust.

In an instant, Patrick was all over him, settling between his thighs and attaching his lips to the swell of his Adam’s apple.

The first contact with Patrick’s tongue sent a jolt through Art’s body. It was electric, dangerous in a horribly intoxicating way. He never wanted the feeling to end. Patrick sloppily kissed his way up to his chin, then paused as if he’d had a wicked idea. He abandoned the kissing altogether, and licked a slick stripe up Art’s face, from his jaw all the way to his temple. Art would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so achingly hard.

“You’re a dog. A sick dog,” he huffed into the side of Patrick’s face, feeling the saliva cool on his cheek.

“So are you,” Patrick breathed raggedly. He shifted his hips, letting their erections slot together. Too many layers between them made the drag nearly painful, and Art shuddered.

Patrick pulled back, halting his hips, and furrowed his brow. “Wait, you bottom, right?”

Art’s hips twitched up involuntarily as he sighed, “Jesus, Patrick-”

“I mean, I assume you do, but I need to make sure.”

Art, annoyed with all this talking, pulled Patrick in by the back of his neck until their lips were less than an inch apart. “Yeah,” he whispered, before connecting their lips. It was just like that night at the hotel years prior; Patrick wasted no time getting his tongue against Art’s, savoring the taste of his mouth. Art had always been more reserved when it came to kissing. He preferred sweet, chaste pecks and politeness to anything rougher. But the drag of Patrick’s tongue against his lips brought something animalistic out of Art, and he found himself making out with him with messy, reckless abandon.

They shed their clothes quickly, though Art was briefly mesmerized by the way Patrick reached behind his head and pulled his shirt off in one effortless movement. Grinding in just their boxers was far more satisfying, and Art’s voice became pitchy as he gasped in the vague shape of ‘more’. Art had always leaked too much during foreplay, and he could feel pre soaking through the cotton of his underwear and wetting Patrick’s, too. It would have been humiliating if he hadn’t thrown all of his dignity out the window as soon as he got Patrick in his bed.

Much to Art’s dismay, eventually Patrick withdrew his hips, sitting up and peering down at him with hazy eyes. “Where’s your lube?”

Art blushed, before answering, “My jeans. The front pocket.”

Patrick flashed a microscopic smirk before scrambling to retrieve the pants, discarded on the floor. “You came prepared, huh?” Patrick teased, fishing the small bottle out with minimal searching. Art just hid his face in the crook of his elbow as Patrick assumed his position, letting one hand rest softly at his navel. Patrick examined the bottle in his hand thoughtfully, before asking, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Obviously,” Art replied a bit too quickly. His desperation was too obvious to stifle. The fingers at his navel dipped slowly to his hipbone, poking playfully. “Lift,” Patrick said casually. Art obeyed without missing a beat, allowing Patrick to slide his boxers off. His dick slapped against his lower stomach with a lewd sound, and Art knew this would be the filthiest thing he’d ever done. Every time he’d let a guy split him open, he’d been on his stomach in the dark, or facing a wall. But with Patrick, everything was illuminated and tantalizingly visible. It made him feel more naked than ever.

Patrick grabbed his thighs to adjust his pose until his knees were drawn up, exposing everything between his legs. He held him like that, admiring the view with a low wolf whistle, which made Art laugh. “Get on with it.”

“Don’t rush me,” Patrick hissed with a slight squeeze to Art’s thigh, “I’m enjoying myself.”

As Art shifted his hips, letting the head of his co*ck rub against his stomach, Patrick sprung into action. He held his dick lightly, in more of a grounding gesture than jerking him off. His other hand uncapped the lube, struggling a bit to squirt it with one hand before retiring and giving it to Art. The blond felt himself flush as he squeezed the bottle into Patrick’s outstretched palm. It felt intimate, yes, but also strangely domestic.

Patrick wasted no time, warming the lube up between his fingers expertly. He was clearly growing impatient, and after a few seconds, decided it was good enough. He let his index finger ghost over Art’s hole, tracing the rim lightly. Art was already shaking, but he fully convulsed when the finger dipped into his ass, nail catching slightly on the velvet of his walls.

“Sorry,” Patrick said in response, and adjusted his fingertip to keep his nail out of the way.

“Don’t be,” Art rasped, voice already sounding f*cked-out. He wasn’t ashamed that he liked it rough, but still, telling Patrick point-blank was too nerve-wracking.

Patrick flashed a devilish smile at that and started fingering him in earnest. At the first knuckle, Patrick drew back a bit, before pushing past the clenched muscle and letting his finger fully disappear into the cavern that was Art’s body.

Art bit back a groan and lost himself as a supercut of Patrick’s hands played in his head. Every flex of his wrist as he pushed Art around, every time his long fingers wrapped around the neck of a racket, every time a tennis ball was dwarfed in his large palm. Those fingers, now wrapped around his dick and buried deep inside him, felt magical.

Patrick took his time with that one finger, lulling Art into a comforting openness, before adding another in a deft motion. The pleasure rocked Art thoroughly, and he gripped the wrist that was loosely wrapped around his co*ck, trying to guide it up and down. Patrick tutted, slowing his fingers as punishment. “Be patient for me, honey.”

Art whined at the pet name, pushing his hips up to f*ck into the warmth of Patrick’s hand. Patrick gave him a warning look and squeezed him, effectively foiling Art’s plan, and got back to work stretching him open.

Patrick scissored his fingers harshly, letting the sharp edge of his nail brush against Art’s walls, and Art shook, pushing up into his hand in desperation. Pre dripped steadily from the head of his co*ck, slicking the back of Patrick’s fingers and making them shine in the warm light emanating from the lamp. It looked like a twisted Renaissance painting, all gorgeous curves and picturesque softness.

When Patrick grazed his prostate, Art lost all grip on reality, letting a slew of groans fall from his mouth. Several whimpers and one finger later, Patrick drew back, releasing Art altogether. “Do you have a condom?”

Art knew he did, buried somewhere in his bag, but he shook his head anyway. “I mean, I’m…” He propped himself up on his elbows, breathing heavily and resisting the urge to push his hips towards Patrick pathetically. “I’m fine without one if you are,” Art finished resolutely and bit at the plush of his lip.

Patrick’s breath hitched as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Jesus Christ, you’re gonna kill me.”

“…So?” Art prodded.

“Okay, f*ck. No condom, then.”

Patrick grasped blindly for the lube, not daring to rip his eyes away from Art’s sex. When he finally found it, he shucked his boxers hurriedly, clearly relishing the soft hitch of Art’s breath as he glimpsed the monster between his thighs. He’d forgotten how big the brunet truly was, and as he slid his hand over himself, slicking it up, Art gulped. Patrick lined himself up, but frowned at Art’s apprehensive expression.

“What?” Patrick asked, as if he didn’t already know.

“It’s just-” Art closed his eyes, anchoring himself by gripping his thighs, “I’ve never… All the guys I’ve been with-”

Patrick laughed as he glanced down at himself, nudging the edge of Art’s rim with his tip. “Go on,” he goaded when Art fell silent.

“I’m not finishing that sentence.”

Patrick huffed, clearly annoyed. “C’mon, I wanna hear you say it.”

Art was reminded then, as he felt the gentle press of Patrick’s co*ck not quite breaching past his muscle, that he wasn’t in control. If he wanted Patrick to give him what he wanted, he’d have to play along.

“It’s big. There, happy?”

Patrick bit back a grin, but it showed in his eyes. “Absolutely.”

He began to push into Art, cautious, as if he was breakable. Every inch coaxed a new sound out of Art, and he couldn’t hold them back if he tried. He’d had anal sex before, obviously, but this was so novelly intense, like getting high for the first time. It wasn’t just that he was big, that the stretch was insanely good— although that was part of it. The history he had with Patrick colored the whole act deep red, like this was the dirtiest, most sensual act he could possibly commit. He’d had Patrick in every possible way, and vice-versa. They were completely intertwined, and Art knew he’d never be able to untangle himself from the throes of Zweig.

When he finally bottomed out, it felt as if Art had been taking more and more for hours. He let out a satisfied, “Oh,” before shifting his hips lightly, just to feel the drag of Patrick’s balls against his ass.

Patrick scrunched his face up, trying to stop himself from thrusting madly, just to let Art get used to the feeling. “Holy sh*t,” he breathed.

Art raised his eyebrows, trying to look as casual as possible with a dick up his ass. “What?”

“Tight.” Patrick’s hips shook, the evidence of reluctantly aborted movements. It made Art burn with wanting.

Art clenched his muscles experimentally, drawing a long moan out of Patrick. He was almost drooling. “You can move,” Art whispered and watched Patrick’s focused face quirk into a smile.

The first few thrusts were painful. Patrick had done a good job stretching him, but Art still had to get used to something so big penetrating him. He enjoyed the burn, though, and the idea that his pain was Patrick’s pleasure. (Because wasn’t it always?)

It slowly became more and more pleasurable, until Art was arching his back and wanting more. The angle made it a feat to reach Art’s prostate, and he found himself craving Patrick deeper inside him.

In the same boat, Patrick huffed in frustration at the shallow angle. In an impulsive move, he hooked his hands beneath Art’s thighs and bent them forward, folding him in half like a girl. It sent Art into a stupor, and his skin heated at the idea of Patrick f*cking him like he was his girlfriend. On the first thrust of his hips, the head brushed Art’s prostate, leaving him mewling and red in the face.

Patrick leaned down until his chest was hovering inches above Art’s and kissed him sloppily. He licked into his mouth like he was trying to devour him, all while keeping the brutal rhythm of his hips. All Art could do was whine into his open mouth.

“You’re so good,” Patrick mused, letting the sounds of skin slapping skin punctuate his words. “Such a good boy.”

Art gasped for air, wiggling his hips as much as he could from the tight angle. He’d never been able to cum untouched, but he knew he’d get there soon if he wasn’t careful. It was too hot, too many synapses firing at once. His dick bobbed on his stomach, dipping the tip into the pool of wetness that had gathered there.

In the heat of the moment, Patrick shoved himself inside Art, letting his co*ck rest against the sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside of him, and stayed there. Buried to the hilt, Patrick caught his breath and admired Art with far too much fondness in his eyes. He let his gaze flick across his entire body, pausing at the mess of desire between his legs, then met his eyes. Looking into Patrick’s eyes was like looking into the sun, Art thought. It was blinding. He tried to turn his head, to push his cheek into the pillow, but Patrick wrenched his jaw back into place, maintaining eye contact. “Let me see you,” Patrick cooed, somehow saying something far deeper than he meant.

All at once, it was too much. Art desperately needed to get off and get out from under him. “Make me cum,” Art said, dismissive.

Patrick obliged. He redoubled his efforts, coaxing whimpered prayers out of Art as he hit his prostate repeatedly. Art was branded. Each thrust was another hot iron to his skin, and he was sure no one would ever be able to look at him again without knowing what he’d done. What he’d let Patrick do.

When he got a calloused hand around Art’s length, delicately stroking the veins of his shaft, Art knew he was close. He started swallowing air, letting high-pitched, pathetic sounds emerge from the back of his throat. He was climaxing a second later, making a mess of Patrick’s hand and crying in ecstasy.

The sight was obscene, cream coating his stomach and sticking to Patrick’s knuckles. Patrick saw an opportunity, stilling his hips and bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste Art’s release. “Freak,” Art gasped, voice dripping with sex. Patrick smiled, making a move to pull out, but Arts hands clamped hard around his hips, keeping him close.

“Keep going,” Art pleaded, and then, shyly, “Finish inside.”

Patrick’s cheeks flushed, but he obeyed, thrusting sloppily into Art with a newfound determination. It was tactless, but the overstimulation made Art choke, grinding his soft dick into his navel. Patrick caught the effort, and let his pinkie graze Art’s slit, causing him to hiss and clench around the co*ck inside him. Patrick’s voice was shaky when he moaned, “f*ck,” and reached the edge. He f*cked Art through each spurt, painting his insides white. Art had never been cum inside of before, and the feeling was foreign and delicious. Even after he stopped cumming, Patrick stayed inside, grinding his dick deeper like he was trying to get Art pregnant. Art let him rest there as his dick softened, affection suffocating his heart horribly. When he finally pulled out with a soft pop, Patrick held Art’s thighs steady, watching as his sem*n dripped out onto the cheap sheets. Art felt exposed, and tried to kick Patrick off of him, but his grip was unrelenting. Deep down, Art knew he’d let Patrick do just about anything to him.

Finally, after getting his fill of the sight, Patrick flopped down next to Art, tangling their limbs together until he couldn’t tell where he ended and Patrick began. They caught their breath together, the dinky hotel fan blowing lukewarm air over their naked bodies. Art thought, in passing, that he should feel disgusting, but he just felt satisfied.

“Remember when we saw that ‘Wimbledon’ movie?” Patrick asked, voice vibrating through Art’s head.

“Uh… yeah? That was years ago.”

Patrick smiled, “Remember when you spilled the popcorn on me?”

Art squinted, as if he could see the memory if he tried hard enough. Patrick’s cum dried on his thighs as his own dried on his stomach. “Yeah, vaguely.”

“You were trying to shovel it back into the bucket, but it was dark,” Patrick laughed, deep in the back of his throat, “and you ended up kinda just rooting around in my lap while you tried to watch the movie.”

Art’s lips quirked up in recognition. “Yeah. It was a tennis movie, I was invested.”

Patrick grabbed his boxers and wiped his soiled hand on them. “Well, anyways, you kept accidentally touching my dick. So I went to the bathroom and jerked off, and I thought about you the whole time.”

Art laughed, sickly sweet, “Holy sh*t, I remember that! You missed the best part.”

Patrick hummed, pulling Art’s head in to rest on his chest. In this position, Art could hear the steady thump of Patrick’s heart. He tried not to think too hard about it. “Wait, you thought about me? Not Kirsten Dunst?”

Patrick scratched Art’s scalp like he was petting a dog. “Nope. Just you. When I came back, you were pissed that I missed some big moment, and I was just thinking about your hands in my lap, looking for popcorn.”

“That’s… a weird story,” Art said, closing his eyes and savoring the drag of Patrick’s nails on his scalp.

“Not our weirdest, though.”

Art glanced down at their bodies, sweaty and overlapping, and the evidence of their sex splattering them like a Jackson Pollock painting.

“I guess not.”

Patrick spent the night, and borrowed some sweats from Art in the morning, resolving to throw out his boxers altogether. He drove Art back to his Jeep, sitting alone in the abandoned parking lot. When they parted, it seemed for a second that Patrick would kiss him goodbye. Art clambered into his car and slammed the door shut.

Spring, 2012

Years passed, and he and Patrick never crossed paths. He reconnected with Tashi, and the week they started dating, his grandmother died. They’d been expecting it for a while, but it still hit him hard. Tashi supported him in her own, icy way.

They got engaged years later, and Art had nearly passed out with nerves, not totally sure whether she’d say yes or slap him. She ended up taking the former route.

When he sees Patrick again, it’s in Atlanta. He’d been so caught off-guard just seeing the side of his head, all the air punched out of his lungs, that it took him a moment to even notice Tashi. Tashi, with him. His fiance, with him. When he looked back at where they were sitting after signing a fan’s hat, they were gone.

He felt anger rise and die in his chest. He couldn’t even blame her, really. If he wasn’t so terrified of that side of himself, he’d sleep with Patrick again too.

His mother died the month before their wedding. She’d never met Tashi. For weeks, Art didn’t cry, just stared blankly and thought about nothing. It was surreal. Once he finally broke, sobbing in Tashi’s strong, loving arms, he didn’t play tennis for weeks.

Art thought, shamefully, that maybe it was a sign. That the universe was screaming at him not to go through with the wedding. But he loved Tashi like he loved his mom, so he decided marrying her was the right thing to do. When his dad didn’t show up to the ceremony, he left a voicemail blaming it on his mother’s passing. Art wasn’t too bothered; His father never wanted a son, really. He’d wanted a wife.

After making Tashi into an honest woman, Art felt more like his father than ever. It terrified him.