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A white blot of lightning discharges from the darkening bush of clouds & splits into twin streaks running down towards the ground. For a split second, the washed-out sky is sundered into three stringy chunks.
“One Mississippi,” Art counts, “two Mississippi, three-”
A loud clap is followed by a series of low rumbles.
“Two kilometers,” Patrick says. The droplets running down his face weave around his perpetually smug smile.
“It’s more than two,” Art corrects him, wiping some of the rain from his face with his palm. He stares at the back of his hand for a second, taking in the hair sprouting from between his knuckles. It’s not a luxury he’d always been afforded.
“You didn’t get to the third Mississippi,” Patrick says, because he could be confident about anything. He would tell you the Earth is flat with that same self-assured smile.
“Yeah. That means it’s more than two & less than three. Not the same as two.” Art blinks, trying to keep the water out of his eyes.
“Gonna keep standing in the rain like that?” Patrick teases. “Doesn’t matter if it’s two or three when you’re a walking lightning rod.”
“What am I gonna do, sit under a tree?” Art retorts.
Patrick’s still grinning. His facial muscles are on an Olympic level. “I meant one of the pavilions.” He walks towards the edge of the woods.
Art catches up with Patrick & gives him a slap on the ass that could mean nothing. Patrick’s wet clothes cling to his body, outlining the muscular physique that has made the slow journey from curvy to angular. His curly hair lies flat on his head, dragged down by heavy droplets of water.
The heavy smell of rain saturates the warm & humid air. “You’d think people would learn by now,” Art remarks. “Don’t have a picnic for Memorial Day. There’s been a thunderstorm every time for the last four years.”
Patrick licks the rain from his lips. Art instinctively mirrors him, tasting dirt & hints of sweat. He remembers when he didn’t sweat all that much. “How’s T treating you?” he asks casually, like Patrick’s body is no more interesting than the weather.
“You can’t tell?” Patrick lifts the hem of his drenched t-shirt, revealing a line of dark hair running up his stomach.
For a moment, Art can’t properly breathe. “Wait till you see this then.” He slips off his own shirt, reveling in the way the air feels on his flat & bare chest. “Chest hair, how about that?’
“Oh, I’ll show you chest hair,” Patrick says, hand resting nervously on the border of his shirt. “Or, well, I could.” He keeps walking.
Art’s excitement makes this small refusal feel all the more acute.
“I remember there being one over there,” Patrick says, pointing past a pile of rounded, tall rocks. “A pavilion.”
Art can’t help the way his eyes follow Patrick & the tight muscles that contract in Patrick’s legs with each step. They’re covered in thick, shiny hair that thins out as it climbs his thighs, & he wants to run his hands all the way up that hair, from Patrick’s ankles to his dick.
It’s probably bigger than Art’s. But he hasn’t had a chance to properly since they both started T a few years ago. If he asked, would Patrick show him? Would Patrick want to see his? On some days, he’s absolutely sure; on other days, rejection comes like a summer storm. The follow-up questions die in his throat.
The pavilion shields them from the rain but not from the thick humidity. Patrick lies back on one of the picnic table benches, his body leaving wet blooms everywhere it makes contact with the flaking wood. Art takes a seat across the table from him.
They’ve known each other for six years, Art thinks, & the spark has never gotten any easier. The potential energy lies in his chest, begging so hard it hurts.
“We’re alone,” Patrick says matter-of-factly & spins around to face him. He leans on his elbows & smirks, the smile popping out like Whac-A-Mole. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t explain why he said that. He just stares.
Patrick has just passed Art the ball—or the baton, & no one else really knows how to gloat like him. Art would wait to be ten times more confident than he is now before gloating like that. The smug bastard would ask for the cup before he even plays. Art feels fuzzy, like a cat with its fur on end from static electricity.
I’m not playing this stupid game with you again, he thinks. What kind of athlete plays a game for six years & still serves like it’s his first day? The best Art can do involves rackets and concrete. He doesn’t reply, shifting his eyes to the trees behind Patrick. The leaves are vivid greed & droop down from the rain like they’re trying to steal a kiss with the earth.
“No one’s going to be out in this weather,” Pat nudges slyly. Rain drips languidly from his scruffy beard. Art stalwartly ignores him & picks at a piece of dried gum stuck under the table. Some of the crumbling, white stuff gets under his fingernail, & he picks it out with his other hand.
“Hey,” Patrick says, & the word is tentative like a tap on the shoulder. Its meaning runs up Art’s spine. “I lied,” Patrick admits, “you definitely have more chest hair than I do.” He pulls off his shirt to reveal well defined muscles & two pink scars.
“Your scars are lopsided,” Art smirks.
“Not everyone can get keyhole like you,” Patrick mutters, crossing his arms over his chest in embarrassment. “Lucky bastard.”
“Your nipples look great,” Art blurts out. “I- I wish I had nipples like that. Mine barely, y’know, work.” At least now they’re both embarrassed.
Patrick laughs abruptly. “Fuck you mean? Don’t work how?” His hand trembles in an unsteady stasis until it pulls a box of cigarettes from his pocket.
Lightning crackles in the distance, four Mississippi away. If you think you’ll have me that easily… “Hand me a cig,” Art says, reaching forward.
Patrick pulls one out from the damp pack & balances it on his finger. “A little wet, but here you go.”
Art allows his hand to graze Patrick’s knuckle. “Thanks.” Each point of contact runs through his body like a live wire. “Want some of this candy I stole from the picnic?” he offers, placing a large bag of jelly beans on the table between them. “C’mon,” he adds, “it’s Memorial Day. No one’s keeping track.”
“You mean Tashi’s not here?” Patrick takes a handful.
Art’s dick throbs with his pulse. Was that supposed to be Patrick’s serve?
“You ever let her follow up on that racket idea?” Art pulls the plastic bag back over to his end of the table. He places A&W Cream Soda on his tongue & swallows.
Patrick flushes. “No.” His hand darts into the bag. The beans rumble around as he digs for a flavor that suits him. “You know there’s eight hundred & ten jelly beans inside one of these bags?”
“Hang on to that knowledge,” Art teases. “Might come in handy next time you want to win a prize at summer camp.” He squeezes his thighs together impatiently. “Throw me a peach.”
“Is it below you to do a little digging?” The bag slides across the table back to Art.
Patrick pulls a lighter from his pocket & begins to click it while Art digs through the give-or-take seven hundred & thirty jelly beans.
The pattering rain slow to a simmer. The outdoors is beginning to look more friendly to park-goers.
Art blindly kicks at Patrick below the table. Their legs connect, earning Art a smile. Patrick thinks he’s won again; Art can feel it.
Patrick withdraws his foot, & disappointment ripples through Art’s body. His heart is beating in his ears, & Patrick is still so fucking smug. The ball is in his court, & he’s just holding it.
He runs one finger along his unlit cigarette. Patrick’s still trying to light his. Art’s body is a tightly wound high E string.
He knocks the bag down on its side. The rumble is painfully loud & incriminating. A handful of beans roll out onto the table. Patrick reaches for the black licorice, looking totally fucking composed. He doesn’t even grimace when he bites into it.
Only one of them has that kind of patience apparently. Art thrusts his hand into the bag & drags it over until it’s positioned over his lap. He forms a fist around the jellybeans & holds it, his body buzzing with arousal. The mass feels surprisingly solid in his hand. Residual rain on his hands mixes with the sugar to create a sticky coating.
Patrick can see everything through the window of clear plastic on the bag. He can see Art’s trembling fist clearly. The cigarette lights, its nostalgic smell joining the earthy scent of rain. Patrick sucks in, hollowing out his cheeks.
The mass of candy feels more real than any packer Art’s ever used. He shifts his fist inside the bag, each of movement of his hand going right to his dick. When he inhales through his nose, the sound is harsh & desperate.
He slowly begins to knead his hand inside the bag & stares down Patrick, waiting for his response. The candy rumbles softly. The lazy motions of Art’s hand build on each other, inching him forward.
Patrick is biting his blue-stained lip. He looks like he’s in a battle, his teeth the only thing holding back his tongue. Patrick nods.
Art rocks his fist up & down. The bag crinkles crisply. He picks up speed, feeling light & dizzy. Patrick looks at him like Art’s covered in colored sugar; the breath comes heavy & loud though his nostrils. Art pumps his fist, holding down the bag with his other hand. The jolts map onto his body, each motion an indulgent stroke against his dick.
He rocks his hips forward in tandem with his hand, making the wooden bench creak loudly under him. Patrick mirrors his motion, moving his shoulders rhythmically to parallel Art. Pleasure comes in teasing flashes, Art’s body approaching plateau. Hot blood floods his cheeks pink.
Patrick’s breathing through his mouth now, his eyes fixed on Art’s hand. It jerks loudly, hitting the table & the top of the bag in alternation. Each stroke brings him a little bit closer. Patrick places his hand on top of the bag. Its heat sends tingles down Art’s spine every time his own hand thrusts upwards. Patrick slips a hand inside. The back of Art’s mouth feels hollow & full of cotton.
Patrick doesn’t give himself enough credit. He has plenty of chest hair.
He drag the bag over to himself, allowing Art’s hand to slip out. Patrick makes a fist. Their breath is a ragged duet. Patrick’s hands knead with intentional motion; Art’s dick feels like fire and ice. The bench screeches as he thrusts his hips forwards.
Patrick’s fingers work their way up & down, each cycle an acupuncture needle of pleasure. Art grips the edge of the seat with his sticky hands. His heart rattles painfully in anticipation. The hand stops, Patrick’s smiling at him the way he smiles when he knows he’s about to break the tie.
“Keep going,” Art breathes, swallowing half of the consonants.
Patrick’s hand remains still. “Huh?”
Expectant pleasure prickles along Art’s dick. His boxers are a wet mess. “I said, keep going,” he forces out of himself.
The movement begins anew, a series of slow kneads.
“Faster,” Art pleads. “I’m so close.” Sweat trickles down his legs.
Patrick obliges. His hand jerks back & forth in a vigorous motion. The air is all sizzling rain, crinkling plastic, & heavy breathing. Art’s right on the brim—he’s right on the fucking brim. “Yeah, faster.” he gasps. “Please, I’m so close.”
Art tumbles over the edge with a hoarse moan.
Crushed jelly beans tumble out of the bag as Patrick retracts his hand. He brings the sticky fingers to his mouth & licks them base to tip. Art could go again right this second. He searches Patrick’s face for a hint of triumph.
For the first time, Patrick’s not really smiling anymore, not victoriously anyways. The pleading look in Patrick’s upturned eyes leave Art questioning who even won that round.