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Patrick had successfully made himself a new best friend.
Alcohol.
If they were acquaintances before, they might as well be married now.
He used crumpled wads of cash from his pockets to get by. It worked, at first. When his card declined, he laughed. Called it a glitch. Nothing to worry about. He’d get it fixed.
He was surviving. Whatever. He was still playing well. Hell, he won matches with nasty hangovers. He could handle this.
But he kept drinking.
When Patrick ran out of booze, he’d light a cigarette. When he ran out of cigarettes, he’d drink. It just helped, that was all. And right now, he would take anything he could.
Not that he needed help.
By now, it’d been at least a year or two since he’d seen Art. Might as well be decades. They hardly texted. Patrick chalked it up as Art being busy with school, since he was so set on that pathway, anyway.
God, thinking about him didn’t make things much better. Matches were blurring themselves together. Wins were drowned out by losses. Patrick was running out of excuses.
Just off my game.
Drank too much last night.
The other guy was probably more experienced.
Wasn’t prepared.
Of course, Patrick never actually said these out loud. He knew his career was already heading down the drain. Telling someone in the press that he was too addicted to cheap beer to play properly anymore would be suicide.
His manager was growing frustrated with him. Patrick had been avoiding his calls. One day, they just stopped.
It was starting to become a pattern.
He played with fraying rackets. Couldn’t afford restringing. Shoes with holes in them. The random brand that he’d been working with was “going in a different direction.” He crashed on other players’ floors until they got tired of him.
Eventually, Patrick was left with his car.
Scratch the alcohol— his beat up 2008 Volkswagen Tiguan was his most loyal companion.
He’d started to get used to it. Kicking his shoes off, grabbing whatever jacket or hoodie or bag he could find for a makeshift pillow and blanket, turning the backseat into a makeshift bed. It wasn’t really that bad, if you ignored the sore limbs, cramped space, how cold it got at night, noise outside, and—
Okay. It fucking sucked.
Patrick had spent pretty much all of his life despising the mansion he’d grown up in, but now he’d give anything for just one night with a warm bed and a shower. It was the kind of situation Patrick would normally find humor in. How ironic, how the tables have turned.
But when his car couldn’t start up one morning, he wasn’t laughing at all.
“Fucking shit,” Patrick hissed. He kicked the side. Nothing. Tried again.
He ended up slamming his head over the wheel with a hard thunk. “Fuck,” he croaked. “Fuck.”
Patrick leaned down to pick up his phone, which had fallen to the floor somehow in the middle of everything. He dusted it off, screen flashing. 11:19 PM. Battery at 7%.
He scrolled through his contacts, muttering a string of curses.
The phone rang in his hand. Click.
“Hey, Lana! Hope everything’s going alright, got a weird favor to ask you. You live near Palm Springs, right?”
A pause. Patrick swallowed.
“…Patrick? Seriously?”
“Yeah, hey. It’s me,” he let out an uneven chuckle.
“I haven’t spoken to you in five years.”
“I know. Been a while, right?”
“Fuck off.”
Beep.
Patrick hit the steering wheel with his fist this time.
It hurt afterwards. He hissed, glancing at his hand— he’d done something weird to his wrist about a week ago trying to return a ball and hadn’t been able to get it looked at since then. He’d taped it, iced it (with a cold slice of ham), but it still hurt like hell.
He whined. Now not only his wrist hurt, but his whole hand. And his head. And his stomach. He’d gotten to the point where hunger felt less like hollowness and more like an ache.
His throat was burning, and soon so were his eyes. He gritted his teeth. Crying alone in his car late at night was fucking pathetic. Hopeless.
Maybe he was out of hope.
Wetness escaped from the corner of an eye, and Patrick wiped it quickly. Each breath he took shuddered dangerously. No.
He tried another.
“Hey, do you—“
Voice mail.
“Hi, I was just—“
“No.”
Beep.
“It’s Patri—“
Beep.
“Can I—“
Beep. Beep. Beep.
No. No. No.
He collapsed over the wheel, phone slipping from his hand again and clattering onto the ground. It was probably dead now. He wished he was dead now.
But he wasn’t. Instead, he cried.
Patrick craned his neck over to the backseat, climbing over so he could check the busted cooler in his trunk. Empty. No beer. He crawled back to the front. Glove compartment. Gum, boarding passes, condoms, wrappers—
No cigarettes.
His nose was running. He wiped it with his sleeve. A rush of his own scent hit him, and for a moment he was tempted to vomit.
Instead, he grabbed his phone again, scrolling back up to the top of his list of contacts.
It rang.
Still ringing.
Finally— click.
“It’s me, Patrick, please don’t hang up— I know it’s stupid, I know you’re probably going to tell me to fuck off, but I’m in California, my car is busted, and I have a match tomorrow and— I really have nowhere to go.”
For a moment, it was so quiet Patrick could only hear the sound of his own ragged breath. Did he hang up already?
“…Patrick?” Art sounded groggy.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Patrick laughed breathlessly. “Sorry for waking you. I— I just—“
“Are you crying?”
He paused in the middle of his sentence. Oh.
A rush of emotion hit him straight in the chest. Still as perceptive as ever.
“…Just drunk,” Patrick lied. “Only a little. I swear.”
He heard the sound of rustling, followed by a heavy sigh. Some distance murmuring came after, voices Patrick didn’t recognize. Nothing he could understand.
“Hey, uh, my phone’s about to die,” he added. “Like, really soon. By the way.”
Another sigh.
“Send me your location.”
Beep.
Patrick let out a sob of relief.
…
Somehow, after his phone went black, headlights appeared in the distance. Somehow, Patrick found himself climbing into a warm leather seat, and soon he was shivering on a sofa with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
Rain echoed all throughout the apartment. It didn’t feel real. It felt like a memory, or a dream. But then he’d blink and there he was: wearing a blue cap and an old sweater, looking better than before.
“I’ll leave in the morning,” Patrick broke the silence.
“Because you want to or because you think I want you to?”
“Because I should.”
Art pressed his lips together. “You don’t have anywhere else to go.”
That one hurt.
“I’ll figure it out,” Patrick wrapped the blanket tighter around himself.
“Yeah, and call me again, begging for me to come find you?”
“Would you do it again if I did?”
Art was silent.
“I don’t know, Patrick,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was tousled, the way it always was whenever he’d just gotten out of bed.
He probably had.
The thought of it sent a pang of guilt in Patrick’s chest. Art, lying in bed in the middle of the night, tangled in blankets, getting up to drive to who-knows-where in the pouring rain. But at the same time, it was… fond. That Art would do that, for him. After all this time. After years of Patrick convincing himself that Art hated him.
“I have a system,” Patrick started to say. “I wake up, and I drive my ass to McDonald’s so I can get something off the dollar menu. Then I crash in my car until the next round of qualifiers, if I even make it. I keep a gym card so I can shower. I’ve got it figured out.”
Art laughed bitterly. “Figured out. That’s what you call figured out?”
“For a guy who’s running off a few wads of cash, yeah, Art, I think that’s pretty damn figured out.” The words came out harsher than expected, but Art didn’t seem to react.
Instead, for a moment, it was silent. Almost peacefully so. Patrick wondered for a moment if he hadn’t heard him.
Then Art spoke. “That’s not a life, man,” he said quietly. “That’s… I don’t even know what that is.”
“Really? How’s studying going for you?”
“I’m going pro in February,” Art swallowed.
Patrick nodded, but he didn’t smile. “Yeah. Was wondering why you’re living here instead of the dorms. I’d be pretty fucked if you had to drag me into campus, huh?”
When Art didn’t respond again, Patrick decided to keep talking. He couldn’t stop himself. “I’m telling you. You’ll like the pro life. Living game to game, it’s kind of exciting.”
It’s not the same as playing with you, Patrick wanted to say. Nothing will ever be the same as playing with you.
To his surprise, Art didn’t argue. Didn’t say anything witty or snappy in response. He just looked at him with this sad, golden retriever look in his stupid, pretty eyes, and nodded.
“That’s great, man,” he said. “Sounds really great.”
…
By now, it was probably around 3 A.M. Or maybe even 4. Patrick wasn’t keeping track, and he was pretty sure Art wasn’t either. He was too afraid that if he checked the time, he’d realize how much had already gone by, and the spell would be broken all over again. Morning would come too quickly, and he’d start to forget what Art’s face looked like now.
They ended up on Art’s bed. There was a rumpled dent on the left side, while the right was completely smooth. Waiting. Patrick could see it so vividly— Art lying on the edge of the mattress, curled against the side of the pillow, just like when they were kids.
This told him two things.
- No one else was sleeping in this bed besides Art (at least not frequently.)
- Art hadn’t changed nearly as much as he had thought.
If Patrick had another bed, he would push it right by his side in an instant, to really make it feel like old times.
But he didn’t. Instead, Patrick took the right side of the bed like nothing had changed at all. They pulled the blanket up over themselves, feet brushing. Easy. Warm. Familiar.
“Definitely a lot more comfy than a carseat,” Patrick sighed. “That’s for sure.”
Art had taken off his sweater, revealing a white t-shirt underneath. Something about the way it hung on him, so effortlessly loose yet tight in all of the right places, made Patrick scoot just a little bit closer to him than he knew he should.
“Seems like you still haven’t learned about personal space, huh.”
A grin. “Why would I worry about that when I have my own little Care Bear to snuggle right next to me?”
Art nudged him with a pillow. “God, please never call me a Care Bear ever again, dude. That’s just weird.”
“Fine, how about a Teletubby? You look a lot more like them anyway.”
The pillow smacked Patrick again, quickly escalating into a mini pillow fight, which also quickly turned itself into a wrestling match. Somewhere along the way, the blanket got kicked off, and Patrick found his arms tickling underneath Art’s stupidly sexy t-shirt, while Art’s hands were tugging on his hair.
They stayed like that for a few moments, smiling and breathing hard, tangled into each other. Neither of them dared to move, or look anywhere other than each other’s eyes.
It was then that Patrick realized it had been way, way too long since he’d seen Art smile. He missed it. The way his nose scrunched up, the crinkles around his eyes. And his eyes— blue and brown and beautiful.
For a second, it almost felt as if they could stay like that forever. Stuck in a moment. Or a memory. Or a dream. Or whatever this was.
And then someone moved.
Maybe it was him, maybe it was Art. Probably both. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Art’s lips were on his and it was so warm and it felt so, so good.
There was a brief moment of fear, mixed in with the rush of excitement. Would Art laugh? Or pull back, disgusted? But all of his fears vanished when he felt the grip on his hair tighten, pulling him in closer, and then Patrick was on top of him, laying on his chest and kissing, kissing, kissing.
He could taste his lips, his tongue. Felt his teeth clacking against his. The faint lingering of toothpaste. But mostly just Art. Everything and nothing existed at the same time when he felt Art’s hands in his hair, could taste him in his mouth, was laying in the bed he slept in night after night.
They took a second to breathe, but only a brief moment. Hot, panting. Then they kissed. Then they did it again.
Patrick looked down and saw that Art’s shirt had ridden so far up his chest that a nipple was exposed, pink and pebbled. Without even thinking, Patrick brushed his thumb over it, watching how Art twitched in response.
Neither of them spoke. It was too dangerous.
So Art sat up and took his shirt off. Shortly, Patrick did the same. One laid back against the pillows, smooth and bare, one sat back on his knees, rough and worn. Wanting. Patrick dove forward again, mouthing along Art’s body, licking at his chest. He flicked the other nipple with his tongue.
“Fuck,” Art croaked.
Patrick smirked. He’d gotten Art to be the first one to speak.
He ran his hands up and down Art’s torso as he continued to explore him with his mouth, creating a delicious friction. Art was rolling his hips up, up, up, and Patrick knew it wasn’t on purpose. Because around him, Art just couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stop. That was the only explanation as to why they were doing this. Something so forbidden, so foreign. Yet it didn’t feel wrong.
Not to Patrick, at least.
“You’re teasing,” Art gasped, his back arching like a girl. “Fucking bastard.”
“Mm, yeah. Forgive a bastard for wanting to take his time,” Patrick buried his face into the crook of his neck, and Art’s hand flew to his hair, gripping it there. He liked to do that. Pull on his hair. Patrick certainly didn’t mind—he made that clear with a deep groan of appreciation.
And then, suddenly, Art was tugging Patrick’s head off of him, and they were moving again. They rolled onto the left side of the bed, where the Art-shaped dent was, legs falling between legs. Art reached for the front of Patrick’s shorts.
Patrick’s eyebrows shot up. Wordlessly, Art just nodded, lips half-parted as he started to pull the waistband down, down, down until he was tugging them off of his ankles.
Fuck. What had he done to Art?
“Holy shit,” Patrick murmured. Art was eying the bulge in his boxers like it was the damn champion’s trophy to the U.S. Open. “You just gonna keep staring?”
At that, Art laughed. Not just a half-hearted scoff, but an actual laugh. And then he was tugging off Patrick’s boxers too, wincing as his cock sprang out and nearly slapped him in the face.
“Fuck, man,” Art laughed again, eying down his shaft. “It’s… I mean…”
“C’mon, suck it.”
Thank God Art was so goddamn obedient, because the moment the words came out, Art’s mouth was wrapped around his cockhead and oh God he was in heaven. His tongue came out, licking tentatively, pressed flat against his cock.
This is his first time sucking a dick, Patrick thought deliriously. Holy shit, this is his first time sucking a dick.
Art began to splutter and gag around the length, bringing Patrick back to reality. “Oh, you can just— just use your hand for what you can’t— yeah, yeah. Good,” he sighed, eyes falling closed as Art’s hand tightened around his throbbing cock, pumping in staggered rhythm. “Really good. Fuck. Keep doing that.”
Their coaches had always said that Art was a fast learner, and damn they were right. Each little thing Patrick would say— “a little more, yeah, yeah right there”—Art would take into account immediately. If tennis was his passion, Patrick would say that sucking dick was certainly a hidden talent of Art’s.
“Gonna make me cum— shit, sorry, sorry,” Patrick couldn’t stop himself from thrusting shallowly into Art’s mouth, causing the latter to cough. “It’s just too good, man.” He chuckled. “Just a little more, yeah?”
Art did a little jerking motion around Patrick’s cock which he assumed was a sorry attempt at a nod. Patrick probably shouldn’t have found that so cute. He did anyway.
Another rock of his hips, another suckle from Art’s delicious mouth, and ah, ah, ah God he was cumming, he was—
“Fuck!”
Patrick’s head tilted back, mouth open. He gasped for air. For a second, it felt like heaven had wrapped its arms around him and milked him dry. As the pleasure faded from beneath his eyelids, he managed to look down.
Art was looking up at him like a dog waiting for a treat.
“Holy shit, Art, I… shit,” Patrick chuckled, swiping his thumb across Art’s lips. “Wait. Fuck. Did you swallow?”
The look on Art’s face told him everything. All of the breath rushed out of Patrick at once.
“God, I mean, you didn’t need to…”
“It didn’t taste bad,” Art rasped. “Not great. But, uh, yeah. Not awful.”
Patrick let out a breathless laugh. “C’mere.” He tilted Art’s chin up so he could kiss him again. They kissed slow and easy, tasting himself on his lips. There was something so hot about it. So right.
“Lemme take care of you,” Patrick murmured against his lips, Art letting out a whine in response. “You want me to fuck you? Yeah? I know you do.”
A strangled squeak came out of Art, something that sounded like ‘please’. Patrick wasn’t sure he’d ever gotten himself hard again this quickly before.
“It might hurt a little, but it’s gonna feel good. Okay? Promise. Just trust me.”
He got Art laying on his stomach, stripped of all of his clothes. A twinge of arousal and pity flickered in Patrick’s stomach at the sight of Art’s cock before he pressed him down onto the mattress, leaky and red and sensitive.
Art had always been sensitive, even when they were kids. In more ways than one. He hated being tickled. Loved having his hair touched. Cried at sad movies, laughed at all of his jokes. Patrick knew that if he took him in his hands and started stroking him right now, he’d finish in seconds. But then it’d all be over too soon.
“Just relax,” Patrick murmured. He ran his hands along Art’s back, reaching down to squeeze his ass. Art stiffened, burying his face into a pillow. Embarrassed, clearly, but Patrick knew he loved it.
Art was already pretty worked up from giving the blowjob (the poor thing), so Patrick decided not to tease him any further. He spread his cheeks apart with lube-slicked fingers, breath nearly stolen from his mouth at the intimate sight.
“Jesus Christ,” Patrick whispered, rubbing small circles.
“Ah— what?”
“I can’t believe I’m staring at your asshole right now.”
“Shut the fuck u—“ Art was cut off by a strangled gasp as Patrick’s finger slipped inside. For a moment, Patrick was afraid he’d hurt him— most guys weren’t immediately welcome to the idea of shoving something up their butt, he realized — but Art’s cock gave a heavy twitch, drooling a puddle onto the duvet, and Patrick knew he was okay.
“That’s it,” Patrick encouraged, starting to slowly pump his finger in and out. “Doing so good.”
He knew how much Art loved to be praised. Teachers complimenting his notes. Coaches nodding in approval during a match. His grandmother telling fond stories of her grandson’s proudest moments. But most of all, Patrick. Everyone knew Art was good. But with Patrick, it was special. Different.
A whimper from the other side of the bed confirmed Patrick’s suspicions. He worked a second finger in, and soon, a third. It all came too easy — each twist and curl, knowing how to find that spot as if his body were his own. Art arched his back in surprise, high-pitched moans escaping his lips as Patrick rubbed against his prostate.
“Holy fuck,” Art panted. He found himself pushing back against Patrick’s hand. More. “God, it feels so— it’s so—“
Patrick removed his fingers, eliciting an empty groan. He made quick work of crawling up to align himself with Art, pressing the blunt head of his waiting cock against his entrance. His hands found Art’s hips, rubbing in circles.
“Good?”
Art made a noise.
“Alright, alright,” Patrick chuckled, keeping his grip on Art’s hips tight as he slowly pushed forward, his cock breaching that tight ring and sliding into the heavenly heat of Art’s body. They both let out breaths in unison as Patrick sank deeper inside, stretching him thoroughly.
“Feels incredible already,” Patrick groaned, voice strained with pleasure. “Doing okay?” He paused for a moment to let them both adjust.
Art, being the needy thing he was, nodded. His cheeks were so pink, Patrick was afraid he’d overheat. Or explode. But with each rock of his hips, the pleasure began to blind him. All he could hear, all he could think, was ah, ah, ah.
It was a little clumsy, a little sweaty (very, actually), a little too rough. Rarely ever too soft. He’d shift his angle, thrusting this way, then that way, never stopping, just making Art feel good. It was never enough, though. He needed more, needed it there, here, then there, yes, right there— don’t fucking stop—
They didn’t try to hold it. It just happened.
For a moment, it felt perfect.
And then it was quiet.
Within seconds, Patrick slipped out of him. In minutes, Art was laying down, twitching, and then he was asleep.
Just as quickly as it began, it was over.