Work Text:
Patrick and Art have never fucked, not really. The closest they ever came was one hot summer night when the air became cloying, and their whole dorm room started to smell of teenage boy and sweat. It was late. Patrick was half asleep when he was awoken by the slow, drifting scent of peppermint reaching his nostrils and a tiny, almost inaudible whimper filling the still silence. There was a rustle of fabric and the creak of an old box spring.
Art.
Patrick sat up then and turned to look over at the boy on the opposite side of the room. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he could just about make out Art, face down in his bed, trying desperately to grind his hips down into his mattress and biting hard into his pillow in an attempt to muffle the high-pitched, needy noises he was making. The creak of Patrick’s own bed made Art’s head turn, snapping over to look at his friend.
Though the room was dark, Patrick could still see the shimmer of tears welling in Art’s eyes. The grind of his hips didn’t slow down. Without thinking, Patrick shot up out of his bed and moved quickly across the room coming to stand next to Art’s bed, hovering uncertainly. Art squeezed his eyes closed, a few stray tears running down his face and soaking into the already wet pillow. The cool, minty smell grew so strong that Patrick thought his own eyes would start watering.
“Hey.”
Art whined, burying his face even deeper into his pillow.
“Hey,” Patrick repeated. Art still refused to look at him properly. Though it was dark, Patrick could see that his pale cheeks were hot and flushed. Patrick moved to sit on the bed next to him. Instinctually, Patrick moved his hand, reaching out to stroke the back of Art’s blonde head. His fingers tangled in the soft, sweaty hair at the nape of Art’s neck. That pulled a strained noise out of the other boy that went straight to Patrick’s dick. He was already half hard just from the heavy scent of need that filled the room. Art huffed, finally stilling the pathetic, half-aborted movement of his hips against the sheets.
“Can you-” Art began before cutting himself off with another half-stifled moan, “Just fuck off, Patrick”, he managed to force out.
“No, come on, Art, look at me.” Patrick heard himself say, even though he didn't really know why. He should have fucked off. should have left the room and called their RA, gotten a teacher or something. But his sleep-softened brain was taking a long time to catch up to what he should have been doing and the heavy scent of peppermint and want in the air wasn't helping him think straight.
Patrick was stuck on the scene that was unfolding before him. He had known that Art was an omega. It had been the talk of the junior tennis circuit for months now, ever since Art had presented. Rumours about “That alpha and omega, the fire and ice fags” had floated around. Patrick had felt the inquiring eyes on them every time they played. These days, it seemed like that was all anyone wanted to talk about - the electric alpha and omega duo that had been taking the circuit by storm. Yes, Patrick had known that Art was an omega, but when he had first presented, Patrick hadn't been there. He had been… he couldn’t remember right now, and it didn’t seem important. But he hadn't been there. He had come back to their shared dorm room and found it empty, the only smell that had remained was the stench of bleach and chemical cleaning supplies which had lingered for several days afterwards.
He knew what Art smelled like, sure, but this was the first time he had ever experienced Art in heat first-hand. Well, preheat, but it was driving him crazy all the same, sending pure waves of electricity pulsing through his entire body, building hot in his groin. Art was affected by the heavy scent of alpha desire in the air. He flipped himself over on his sweaty mattress, keeping his eyes shut tight.
“Fuck…” Art groaned, long and drawn out, followed up with something halfway between Patrick and please, panting with the exertion of stringing together any kind of comprehensible speech. Patrick’s hand slid down, moving from the crown of Art’s head to his face to hold his warm cheek.
“Come on, Art, look at me,” he said again, more sure this time. Art did; deep blue eyes, wet and desperate, met Patrick's, and he let out a high, loud keening sound, no longer muffled by his pillow. It echoed through the dark room and set Patrick's blood on fire.
“It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you.” He meant it. He knew what Art needed, knew that he could give it to him if only Art would let him.
“Just let me help you, okay?” he was aiming for reassuring, but he could hear the desperation creeping into his own voice. If Art really wanted him to go, he would. Patrick would leave and go find a responsible adult, and they would never have to talk about this ever again. But he knew that wasn’t what he wanted. It wasn't what Art wanted either. The other boy was pushing his face against the clammy hand still pressed against his cheek, rumbling out a different sound now, lower, deeper, almost a purr.
“Tell me what you need from me, Art. Come on, talk to me.” Patrick was never one to beg, but he could swallow his pride just this once, for Art.
That was the final straw. Art had been trying so desperately to hold himself back, but hearing the naked want in Patrick's voice, smelling his own scent undercut by the warm burning cedarwood coming off of the other boy in waves, he finally let go. Patrick, gaze still fixed on Art's face, saw the shift in his expression as it happened. Art's blue eyes softened; he blinked slowly, letting his head fall back against his damp pillow.
“Patrick, just,” he was panting now, “ just fucking touch me already.”
Patrick didn’t need to be told twice. He crawled onto the bed, coming to hover over Art, bracing himself on his elbows over the heat-stuck blonde before him. This close, the minty, cool scent of Art was overwhelming. Patrick tried to lean back slightly, trying to get a breath of fresh, non-Art-scented air, but as soon as he began to pull away, Art reached up, grabbing onto Patrick's shoulders and pulling him impossibly closer. Patrick's face was practically buried in Art's neck, and for a brief moment, he thought about sinking his teeth into the pale flesh, thought about making Art his, fully, totally. He had never wanted something so desperately in his life. They had always been able to read each other's minds; that was why they worked so well together both on and off the court - Art knew exactly what Patrick was thinking. Art turned his head to the other side, exposing the long column of his neck to Patrick, who took the opportunity to dive in, pressing hot, wet kisses to the swollen gland there. He wouldn’t bite. He couldn’t. They both knew it. But just the heavy pressure of his mouth there made Art keen, and it made Patrick groan with barely restrained want.
“You said you were going to help, asshole.” Art grit out through clenched teeth. His words brought Patrick back down to earth, derailing his dangerous train of thought.
“Yeah, okay. Okay, Art. I can do that.” Patrick shifted again, slow and deliberate, pressing his hips down to meet Art’s. At this point, both of their briefs were almost soaked through with precum; through the thin layer of wet fabric between them, Patrick could feel the hardness of Art's dick against his. They both groaned with something like relief. It wasn't enough, but fuck was it good. Patrick couldn't help himself; he started thrusting, a hard, fast rhythm, feeling the drag of his damp briefs against the head of his cock. His brain felt like pure liquid. The only thing he could think about was the whining blonde beneath him. The cool tang of mint was everywhere. The smell became stronger, pushing him to thrust with even more vigour. Art had let go of all of his earlier reticence - the noises pouring from his open mouth were pornographic, little gasps and groans that were driving Patrick insane.
In that moment, he would have given just about anything to be able to tug both of their underwear down, just enough to grip both of them in his already sweat-slick hand. But he knew that would be crossing some invisible, unspoken boundary. It would be one step too far. The thin layer of fabric between them was a line in the sand, and stepping across it would take them into unsafe territory. It would make all of this feel too real.
Patrick kept up with the frantic movement of his hips. He could smell the hot scent of the slick leaking from Art and pooling in his briefs. It was so easy to picture flipping Art over, opening up his already dripping hole, fucking into that tight, wet heat. It was something Patrick had thought about before.
When he jerked off in the shitty dorm shower they shared with the eight other guys on their floor, it was almost always to the thought of Art. Art on his knees, open mouth drooling as Patrick fucked his throat. Art on all fours, moaning, making that same whiny, punched-out sound that he made mid-rally as Patrick pressed wet, sloppy kisses against Art’s rim before slipping his tongue in, letting Art rock back against his face. He bet Art would taste fucking incredible.
Patrick's whole body felt so hot that somewhere in the back of his mind, he started to worry that he might be entering his own rut. The urge to pin Art to the bed, to bite him, to claim him, was overwhelming. Patrick was almost dizzy with want. He was starting to lose his rhythm, hips moving of their own accord as the pleased noises Art was making and the smell of peppermint, of omega, of Art, that hung in the air overwhelmed his senses.
“Fuck,” Art groaned, his blunt nails digging deep into the meat of Patrick’s shoulders. The dull sting of pain only pushed Patrick closer to the edge. He was losing his fucking mind. A soft, broken whine slipped out of Patrick’s mouth. He was so fucking close it was bordering on painful. He needed to cum, but he knew this wasn’t about what he needed.
“Art, fuck, I’m gonna-“ Patrick was panting. He cut himself off with a weak groan. “Are you-“
“Yes. Don’t fucking stop.”
Patrick wouldn’t dream of it. He keeps rocking his hips, and then Art is coming with a long, drawn-out whine, and more tears roll down his cheeks. He’s the most beautiful sight Patrick has ever seen; blonde curls splayed against his damp pillow, watery blue eyes still locked on Patrick, his soft pink mouth caught wide open. Patrick wanted to take in the sight, but his eyes closed involuntarily as he followed Art over the edge. For a moment, they were both still, frozen in time. Patrick was struck by the urge to lean in again, to bury his face in the crook of Art’s neck and take one last inhale of that cool, sweet scent that was so perfectly Art. He wanted to kiss him, just once, just to see what it would be like. He didn’t.
Patrick rolled off, getting up to stand next to Art’s bed again, cum soaked boxers wet against his softening cock. Neither of them said a word as Patrick puttered around, finding a shirt on the floor to wipe himself off and then throwing a second one directly at Art’s head. Patrick changed his boxers and crawled back into his own bed. Art eventually peeled himself off of his sweaty sheets and did the same. The silence was so heavy it was almost suffocating.
“Goodnight man,” Patrick said eventually, rolling over to face the wall. “Go see the nurse tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Art replied, his voice still sounding slightly broken, “Night.”
Patrick lay still in the dark, listening to the sound of Art’s breathing until it eventually evened out into a soft snore.
They wouldn’t talk about it in the morning.