summary: In which Patrick teaches Art how to jerk off… a lot later down the road.
word count: 1.7k
warnings: 18+, mutual masturbation
a/n: happy valentine's day you freaks
masterlist — on ao3
It started, as always, with Tashi Duncan.
“What’s so great about this girl, anyway?” Art asked the ceiling, laying where the two beds met. The sheets were twisted, an assortment of belongings spread out between them both: hollow beer cans, takeout crumbs, playing cards. Clearly they’d given up pretending to be separate.
Patrick sat up from where he was leaning against the headboard, one knee bent. “Are you serious? You saw the picture I showed you, didn’t you?”
“Well yeah, but—“
“But what? She’s fucking hot, dude, like, smoking hot,” Patrick grinned as he shook his head.
Art scoffed, shifting to his side . “You say that about every chick you want to fuck.”
“Yeah, well, I really mean it this time. I mean, look at her.”
The can of beer lying between them nudged free as Art moved, sliding off the edge of the bed and clattering to the floor with a hollow clunk. Neither of them went to get it.
Art exhaled. “Why do you keep that picture, anyway? You jerk off to it?”
Patrick shrugged, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. “Nah, it’s not jerk-off material,” he glanced over at Art. “Why, you want it?”
“What? No,” Art snorted. “I don’t— I mean, no.”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t want it.”
“Not that, you fucking idiot. You don’t what?”
Art was silent.
“Art.”
“Fuck off.”
“Are you serious?”
“I said fuck off.”
Patrick let out a laugh. A big, breathless laugh. “Holy shit,” he said. “You don’t jerk off. I don’t fucking believe it. Art Donaldson doesn’t jerk off.”
“Does it really matter that much?”
“Dude, all guys jerk off! Is there something wrong with you? Can’t get it up or something?”
Art felt his face burn. “That is not why.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I just—“ Art huffed. “I’ve never done it before.”
“Say that again?”
“I said I—“ Art fell back against the bed, turning his back to Patrick. “Can we stop fucking talking about this?”
The room fell silent. For a moment, Art was actually convinced that Patrick had listened to him.
“Why?”
Art sighed. Great. “Why what?”
“Why haven’t you jerked off before?”
It was silent again. The ceiling fan felt awfully loud all of a sudden. Had it always been that loud?
Patrick nudged him with his foot. “I can show you how, you know.”
Art laughed, shaking his head. “You’re not gonna do that.”
“I’m just trying to help you out. I mean… What do you even do when you’re horny? Just say a little prayer and wait for it to pass?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“I mean, I’m pretty sure you’ve seen what I do. I try to wait until you’re asleep, but sometimes I just can’t wait. I’ve done it in the shower, in the bed, on your bed, sometimes, actually—“
A pillow went soaring at Patrick’s head. “You are fucking disgusting.”
“Yeah, well, I think you’re just a saint. I mean, seriously. Not even once?”
At the lack of response, Patrick peeled the pillow off of himself and tossed it back in Art’s direction. “I was being serious, you know. I’ll show you how. It’s not exactly rocket science,” he said.
Still nothing. Art always got quiet when he was being stubborn. “Alright, come on. What if Tashi Duncan wanted to fuck you—“
“That would never happen.”
“It probably wouldn’t, but let’s just pretend. What if she did, and then she tells you she wants to watch you jerk off. Then what?”
Art looked at him skeptically. “Why the hell would she want to see that?”
Patrick shrugged, adjusting his waistband. “I dunno. That girl I hooked up with in August was into that.”
“You mean Ava?”
“Yeah. The one with the fat ass, not the other one.”
“Gross.”
“Anyway, we both know you’d sit there stroking your shit looking like a fucking moron, and there’s no way in hell she’d be turned on,” Patrick said. “So don’t you want to get some practice now?”
Art fiddled with his fingers. “…Practice.”
“Yeah. Just like tennis.”
“This is not just like tennis,” Art laughed.
“Art, come on.”
Art let out a long, heavy sigh. He knew he wouldn’t win this. He never did, at least not when it came to Patrick. “You better not try anything funny,” he murmured.
“Just relax. It’s supposed to be fun, you know. It feels good. I promise,” Patrick assured him, tossing his cigarette aside. “Go sit over there. I’ll take this side.”
“Why?” Art asked, even though he was already moving.
“Because I know you’ll get all shy and stupid if we do it right here. Just sit on the edge, I don’t care where you look.”
Art sat with his back facing Patrick, suddenly feeling uncomfortably aware of everything. He crossed his ankles, then uncrossed them. Was he sitting too far? Was Patrick watching him?
Patrick snorted. “Jesus Christ, relax. We haven’t even taken your pants off yet.”
“I… should I do that?”
“Sure. Go ahead, why not.”
Art obeyed. As his shorts hit the floor and he set them aside, he heard the same soft thump mirrored on the other side of the bed. “Wait, you’re doing it too?”
“Well, yeah. Would be pretty fucking weird if I just sat here and listened to you beat your meat,” Patrick kicked his shorts away. “Think of it as a hands-on approach.”
“Oh, god.”
“Is your dick out yet?”
Art swallowed. “…yes.”
“Great, that’s the first step. Congratulations. You hard yet?”
“Uh,” Art looked down. He felt his face grow hot with something akin to shame but not quite. Something heated and guilty all at once. “…not… really?”
“Okay, then just touch yourself. You don’t have to do anything crazy yet, just… see what feels good,” Patrick told him, his own hand snaking down his body to wrap around his shaft.
Judging from the silence alone, Patrick could practically hear how focused Art was. “How’s little Art doing down there?” He asked.
“He’s— I—“ Art spluttered. “Don’t fucking call it that.”
“Just wrap your hand around it,” Patrick said, stroking slowly. “You don’t have to go fast. Just keep going. Maybe touch the tip a little, with your thumb or something, whatever feels good.”
"Fuck," Art breathed out, his hips giving an involuntary twitch at the feeling of his own touch. It was almost humiliating how he almost immediately went fully hard, a bead of precum leaking out that he could feel cooling on his skin.
Following Patrick’s instructions, he started stroking slowly, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head with each movement. His cock twitched and throbbed in his grip, growing harder and harder until he was rock solid.
It’s just practice, Art reminded himself. Like tennis.
Art never really looked at his cock very closely. It wasn’t like he spent all of his free time sitting around with his pants down, staring at it. But now, it was all he could really look at. He could see the blood rushing south, the vein along the top pulsing.
It gave a hard twitch, and something in Art suddenly wanted to see what Patrick’s cock looked like, too.
Fuck it, this was nothing like tennis at all.
He figured it must have been the arousal starting to mess with his brain, or the sounds of Patrick’s own stroking, his groans, drowning out any logical sense that Art had. Because the thought of watching Patrick jerk off didn’t seem disgusting at all, all of a sudden. Just imagining it was only making Art feel even hotter, each stroke growing faster, tighter.
He’d seen it before. Stole a glance in the showers, the locker rooms, the bathroom. He knew it was big. Bigger than his, probably. But he’d never seen it hard before, never seen it in Patrick’s fist, throbbing and ready and—
“Shit,” Art gasped, his breath coming in short pants. His free hand gripped the edge of the bed. A thick spurt of precum leaked from his tip. “Patrick, I— I think I’m—“
“Already?” Patrick laughed, a breathless noise.
“It’s—“ Art was cut off by an embarrassingly high-pitched moan, his hips bucking up into his hand. “What do I do?”
“Just keep going, man. You’re close, aren’t you?” Judging from the way Patrick sounded, he probably wasn’t too far off either.
Art nodded, even though Patrick wasn’t facing him. “Yeah, fuck,” he breathed. “So close.”
Without thinking, Art turned. Patrick was sitting a lot closer than he’d thought, and oh fuck there was his cock. And he was stroking it, lips parted, head tilted back. Holy shit, he could see everything.
Art gaze zeroed in to where Patrick’s hand was moving in a rapid, wet blur, and that was all it took. His entire body went rigid before a wave of pleasure crashed over him, and cum hit his chest in long, hot ropes.
“Oh— fuck!” Art choked out. It lasted longer than expected. For a moment, he almost thought it would never end, and he would sit there staring at Patrick cumming himself silly for eternity. His hand stilled, just the pressure of its weight sitting on his cock alone for the pleasure to continue riding out in waves.
He glanced down at himself, sticky and spent. A deep flush colored his cheeks pink.
“Fuck,” Art whispered, his voice breaking. When he finally looked up, Patrick was staring straight at him with a stupid fucking smirk on his face.
“You look like a kid who spilled milk all over himself.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Art reached for the abandoned pillow, tossing it half-heartedly in Patrick’s direction. His aim was lousy and it went soaring towards the wall with a soft thump.
He reached over to grab some of the tissues from the nightstand, starting to clean up the mess coating his stomach and chest. “For the record, I don’t usually get all… flustered like that,” Art muttered. “That was just… it was just because it was my first time actually, like, really jerking off with the intent to cum. And your detailed commentary didn't help."
“Sure,” Patrick stuck the cigarette from earlier back in his mouth, lighting it. “You’ll just have to show me how you really do it next time.”
art gets stood up at mclarens so patrick gets drunk with him to make him feel better but they just end up hooking up in art’s apartment. bonus points if tashi finds them the next morning and art thinking his chances with tashi are ruined (but lowkey she doesn’t really mind)
"She's not coming, man."
The chatter of MacLaren's is all that Art can really hear, his head craned to look at the door and flinching every time it swings open. "You don't know that," he mutters, sipping his beer, and looking over at Patrick. "She works as a realtor. She's probably just tying up some loose ends. She's on her way."
Patrick rolls his eyes at Art's insistence, swishing his scotch around in his glass. "It's been half an hour, Artie boy. Realtors don't even have a real job, she could've been here an hour early if she wanted to." He seems shocked when Art glares at him, shrugging innocently.
"You're being a dick," Art murmurs, hunching over his glass as he keeps staring at the door, chewing on his lip anxiously. "She's gonna show up."
Patrick stays at the bar as an hour passes, watching as Art's form grew more slumped and hunched over. Finally, after two hours had gone by, the blonde turned to his friend, big blue eyes glassy and a frown pulling down his lips. "...I don't think she's coming," he says, voice almost unheard underneath the din of the bar.
Patrick smiles sympathetically at Art, flagging down the bartender and ordering another glass of scotch. "Told you, man. Chin up." He slides the drink over to his friend, a cocky grin plastered on his face. "You don't need her to have a good time."
Despite his disappointment, Art can feel his lips curl up into a smile, taking the glass and clinking it against his friend's. "Cheers," he says reluctantly, and Patrick shoves him playfully.
"Atta fucking boy."
The bar becomes their territory, with Patrick protecting Art like a mother bear. With Patrick's bottomless pockets, their glasses are never empty, and by the end of the night, Art and Patrick are stumbling back upstairs to Art's apartment, lights strobing in their heads and words slurring.
"Thanks for hanging out with me, dude," Art calls out from where he collapses onto the couch, and Patrick shuffles around the kitchen aimlessly, looking for something to eat. "I thought- I wanted her to come, but, you..." Art looks up with bleary eyes as Patrick sits on the couch next to him, heavy head laying onto Art's shoulder. "You're, like, the best bro ever."
Patrick laughs at that, looking up at Art. His glossy blue eyes gazed back down at him, lower lashes casting shadows onto his flushing cheeks. Art's always been very pretty, almost in a girl-like sense, but through the haze of alcohol and feeling his best friend pressed so close against his body, it makes something in his stomach flip...
It doesn't take long until Patrick's lips are abruptly crashing into Art's, the taste of cigars and scotch mingling with Art's naturally sweet taste. They clash together, hands gripping at each other shirts as the clumsily unbutton them, slamming into the bedroom door and knocking it wide open. The door smacks against the other side, nearly knocking over a painting that Tashi had left the other day, and Art pulls away to hurriedly fix it.
Patrick rolls his eyes, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and settling onto Art's bed, kicking his shoes off and pulling his socks away. "Hurry up," he grouses, watching with hungry eyes as Art stumbles over and collapses on the bed next to him, tripping over his feet because of how his pants were pooled at his ankles. He oomphs when he lands atop Patrick's chest, grinning up at his friend. Art's lithe fingers trace down Patrick's chest, all the way down his happy trail before wrapping around his leaking dick. It jumps against his stomach at the contact, and Art places a gentle kiss right along the tip.
"Can I-?" Art doesn't even have to finish the question before Patrick's pulling him closer, chests flush against one another as Art rummages around in his abandoned jeans pocket for a condom. The blonde can feel Patrick's erection poke against his thigh in anticipation, and a keening groan escapes his lips when he pulls away, tearing the condom wrapper open with shaky hands and rolling it on.
Art spits into his open palm and jerks himself off, watching with adoring eyes as Patrick spreads his legs wide, his cock bobbing and leaking onto his stomach. "Ready?" Art whispers, reassuring hands grounding onto Patrick's hips as the head of his length prods against the brunette's twitching hole. Patrick nods with a cocky grin on his face, quickly wiped off his face once Art pushes in.
Patrick's chapped lips part, slack-jawed, and Art's head tips back as he bottoms out. "Ohhhh, fuck, Pat-" Art mewls, swallowing thickly as he begins to slowly thrust, watching as Patrick's dick twitches and he seems to clench around him. "Shit- don't- don't do that," the blonde pleads desperately.
His thrusts are gentle, pressing against Patrick's prostate with each one and relishing at the feeling of Patrick's hole squeezing around him, his hands wrapped around Art's biceps in a similar fashion. "You feel so good in me," Patrick rasps, his voice weaker than Art's ever heard in his life.
"Yeah?" Art pants, speeding up his thrusts and causing Patrick to whimper. The brunette starts to jerk himself off, sensing himself nearing to the edge. Art moans at how deliciously Patrick seems to tighten around him, hips stuttering and moving faster. "Oh ff-fuck, Pat, you're so fucking tight," he groans, sweaty curls sticking to his forehead.
Patrick's moans pitch up in cadence and volume, his other hand gripping the bedsheets as he strokes himself hurriedly. "I'm gonna fucking cum," he growls, his stomach tightening as Art keeps pounding away at his prostate. "Keep- keep doing that- don't stop-"
Art's two steps ahead of him, already buried deep in Patrick's warm hole and shooting a load inside, his moans tearing through his throat as he weakly tries to thrust deeper, despite the fact of him having a condom on.
The sight of Art moaning and falling apart on top of him is enough to send Patrick over, cum splattering onto his and Art's chest as he moans, loud enough that Art can feel it vibrating through his body. They lay like that for a bit, brains slowly catching up to speed with what their bodies were doing before Art pulls out, tying off the condom and shuffling away from the bed to toss it. Patrick wraps a blanket around him, watching as Art leaves and comes back. "I can stay, right?" Patrick's voice is timid, as if Art could ever kick him out.
The blonde collapses next to Patrick, tucking his face into Patrick's neck and nodding. "Please stay," is all he says before he's snoring, naked body pressed up against Patrick. He sighs in relief, eyelids growing heavy, and he gives in to the warm comfort of having Art beside him.
They're awoken unceremoniously the next morning, banging pots and pans in the kitchen. The door to Art's room is ajar, and there's someone else outside. Art's the first to wake, sitting up and blinking blearily, and when Patrick tries to do the same, he winces and lays back down.
"Hello?" Art calls out, drawing the blanket up to his chest, and footsteps approach his room.
Tashi stands in the doorway, a cup of coffee in her hand and a smug smile on her lips. "Morning, princess," she says, watching with glee at how Art's face flushes. She takes a sip of her coffee, wiggling her finger between the two men.
"So. You two, huh?" she grins, and Art's quick to shake his head.
"No! No, Tash, I- it isn't what it looks like- me and Pat, we just got, like, so drunk, and we-"
"It's okay." Tashi shrugs, cutting off Art's awkward rambling. Beside Art, Patrick's smirking too, his expression matching Tashi's. "I've always wanted two boyfriends, anyway."
summary: what happens when you haven't seen your old buddy in a long time during a time of desperate measures?
word count: 3.7k
warnings: 18+ blowjob, anal sex, all that fun stuff
a/n: technically chapter 4 of in your car, the radio up but you don't need to read that. i was digging around in my google docs and found this and was like yk what hell yeah
masterlist — on ao3
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.
Dave 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.
contains: 3.5k words, summer camp setting, camp counselors!artrick, mainly fluff and comfort, brief mentions of vomit, they get to be happy for once!
notes: peanut butter in a cup we sing this song to pump us up!!!! okay i fear im lowk doxxing myself a little with this fic but i just reallyyy needed to write them being happy for Once okay. its pride month. leave me alone. also the vomit story is smth that actually happened to me and my co-leader cracked me tf up i couldnt stop laughing
taglist: @girliism, @imperishablereverie, @faiztsheap, @musingsofheaven, @yardofbrunettes, @forgetmenotnympho (adding on @pittsick bc u seemed to be interested in this au <3). click here to be added !
Raucous laughter and chattered conversations were hushed when the two Student Leaders stepped up onstage, waiting for the noise to die down. The blonde stepped up first, taking a deep breath before beginning to speak while he fidgeted with the beads on his paracord.
“Hi everyone, my name is Halo, my pronouns are he/him, and I’ll be leading Basalt cabin this week!”
His own voice surprised him– outside of camp, he was soft-spoken and gentle, not this chipper stranger in his body. But it felt right to Halo, to sound so upbeat and happy while surveying the sixth-graders that stared up at him with reverent eyes. It felt so natural to Halo, and it filled him with a sense of pride to know that he had the chance to change all these kid’s lives. He was abruptly jolted out of his fantasy by the loud burp that erupted on his left.
“‘Scuse me, uhh… um. My name is Cheddar. Like the cheese. I use the, uh, boy? He/him pronouns? And I’ll also be leading Basalt cabin.”
Halo had to stifle a sigh. First timer. He could tell by the way his co-leader had to glance down at his woodcookie, and the way he mispronounced Basalt. But it didn't matter, Halo could teach him the way. Their Program Leader read out the list of boys that they’d be taking care of, and each sixth-grader hopped off the bench and shuffled over to the pair.
Cheddar leaned over to whisper in Halo’s ear. “So, should we maybe have a pooping schedule? Since… I don’t think I can go the entire week without pooping.”
Halo shot Cheddar a sharp look. This was going to be a long fucking week.
The one thing Cheddar was good for was move-ins. He was strong, much stronger than Halo, and helped all the kids with their luggage. There were ten total, Halo counted, chewing the inside of his cheeks. Not a bad ratio, especially for a co-led cabin. His gaze moved over to where Cheddar was walking with kids swarming him, weighed down with the trashbags of pillows and duffel bags that kids had laden on him. Halo couldn’t help but laugh at the expression on his co-leader’s face, shaking his head as he walked faster.
“A little help?” Cheddar called out from behind him, and Halo turned around, walking backwards and smiling smugly at Cheddar.
“Nah, you’ve got that. I believe in you!” he laughs, hearing Cheddar’s groan of frustration from behind him as he jogs up the hill. The sun is warm and bright, tickling through the branches to reach his skin, warming him up. This was what Halo loved about Camp Hemlock, the way nature surrounded him and drew him in, bringing him into loving arms. It was home to him.
Basalt was Halo’s favorite cabin, and the one he had requested to lead. It was a large cottage with four separate rooms, so he and Cheddar could share one away from the stench of sixth-graders. Halo didn’t know that he’d have a co-leader, but he didn’t really mind. A home was meant to be shared, after all.
…Was what he kept trying to tell himself when he was heading back to the cabin from the bathhouse, spotting Cheddar sprinting down the gravel road. His arms were waving over his head, and he was screaming frantically.
“Help! HELP!” he stopped in the middle of the road, squinting at Halo’s faraway figure. “Are you a student? IT’S AN EMERGENCY!”
Halo kept walking towards Cheddar, raising an eyebrow. “No, dude, it’s me,” he said flatly, shaking his head. “What happe-?”
Cheddar let out a guttural sob, grabbing the front of Halo’s shirt and shaking him around. “OH GOD, IT’S EVERYWHERE!!” He looked over at Halo frantically, already dragging him back to the cabins. “This kid- God, I forgot his name! He threw up, and he’s crying, and it’s just everywhere, like on the walls-” Cheddar cuts himself off, looking close to puking himself.
Halo patted a gentle hand against Cheddar’s back tentatively, his face a blank canvas. “That sounds pretty bad,” he offers, speeding their pace up. Cheddar is fully leaning onto Halo, dramatic sobs escaping his lips every few seconds. Jesus. “How many times did he throw up?”
“Once.”
Halo grit his teeth and walked faster. This better be the biggest puddle of vomit he’d ever seen in his life.
They entered the cabin to see the snivelling child hunched over a small puddle of vomit- no more than four inches in diameter. Halo glared at Cheddar, sighing loudly. “Okay, c’mon. We got briefed on this yesterday, remember? Go get the bag of sand from the cabin box,” he coached Cheddar along, getting the kid out of the cabin to wait on the front porch.
Less than a minute passed just for that action, and when Halo turned back into the cabin, Cheddar had pulled out a string of fucking jingle bells, shaking them around over the puddle of vomit. “Like this?” he asked desperately, panicked green eyes staring back at Halo.
Halo didn’t know what to say– he just watched Cheddar jingle the bells around like it could summon a cleaning fairy. He wasn’t sure if he’d met someone quite this inept before. “...No. No, man. Not like that.” He walked over to the cabin box himself and pulled out the bag of sand, shaking his head at Cheddar. “Go help the kid get changed. That’s Nathan, by the way.”
Cheddar rushed outside quickly, muttering “Nathan, Nathan,” in a hushed tone under his breath as he shut the door. Halo just sighed, beginning to pour the sand atop the puddle, grabbing some paper towels. It’s his first time, Halo had to remind himself, still shaking his head to himself as he wiped up the vomit. I was terrible my first time too.
When Halo opened the door to usher Cheddar and Nathan back in, the puddle was wiped clean and the sour smell dissipated. Cheddar was muttering something under his breath– curses, most likely, as he grabbed the kid’s soiled sleeping bag. He bundled it up and tossed it into the adjoining bathroom, before disappearing into his and Halo’s room and exiting with his own bulky sleeping bag.
“Here,” he grunted, laying the sleeping bag down onto Nathan’s bunk. “Just… sleep in that. We’ll get your sleeping bag washed tomorrow, okay buddy?”
Halo watched from the corner as Cheddar murmured a quiet tuck-in, zipping up the sleeping bag snugly. Despite Cheddar’s idiocy, Halo couldn’t deny how good he was at building rapport and making the kids like him. That wasn’t a learned trait– Cheddar was just born with it.
“You won’t have a sleeping bag,” Halo said when they went into their own room. Cheddar sat down on his bunk across from Halo, bare now, save for a pillow. “You’re gonna catch a cold.”
Cheddar took off his woodcookie, smiling at Halo. His teeth were nice and straight, blindingly white even in the dark. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got a strong immune system.” He laid down on his bunk, laying his jacket over himself. Halo felt his stomach tingle at the sight, something odd rising up in him.
He patted the side of his own bunk, drawing Cheddar’s attention. “Come on,” he prompts, making space in the small bunk. “You’re gonna freeze to death.”
Cheddar sat up, eyes narrowed. “...Dude, it’s May. I think I’ll be fine,” he said, but he looked tempted to join Halo.
Halo rolled his eyes, drumming his fingers against the mattress impatiently. “Five… four… three…”
And just like Halo expected, by ‘two’, Cheddar’s warm body was curled up next to him, struggling to fit under the sleeping bag. He looked over at Halo, his pink lips parted as he breathed out, “This okay?”
Halo hesitated before nodding, a small smile on his face. “Yeah. It’s okay,” he answered, his voice a quiet whisper– and what surprised him most was that he wasn’t lying.
“Okay,” Cheddar whispered, a glint in his eyes as he turned to the other side, yawning loudly. “Night, Halo.”
The soft snuffling sounds of his breathing reached Halo’s ears as he turned out the nightlight, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeping bag. It was… nice, to have someone next to him, keeping him warm. To feel Cheddar’s presence next to him, grounding him, was comforting. Halo exhaled softly, pushing back the urge to reach out and wrap an arm around Cheddar.
“Good night, Cheddar.”
Even after Nathan’s sleeping bag had been washed and Cheddar’s sleeping bag was returned, Halo and Cheddar still fell asleep together every night, inching closer as the week went on. Sometimes Cheddar would toss his legs over Halo’s hips, or Halo would be grasping at Cheddar’s shoulders in his sleep. Unconsciously, they would move closer and closer together throughout the night until they were awoken in the morning, quickly jolting apart and acting like nothing had happened.
Halo would mentally slap himself every morning, feeling like he was doing a walk of shame as he left the cabin. He’d been volunteering enough times to know that what he was doing was wrong, and he could be barred from coming back. But catching Cheddar’s eyes across the dining hall, blushing at the charming smile the other leader would give him, it made all of Halo’s worries disappear.
They began spending their breaks together, leaving their phones to gather dust in the nurses office as they set off to explore the site, mainly Halo leading Cheddar around. Halo showed Cheddar all his favorite secret stops on the site– the hidden pond behind the dining hall, the rope swings deep into the woods, and Halo’s favorite, the dock harboring the gazebo. They stopped at the gazebo, Cheddar leaning over the railing to survey the lake.
“Can I ask why you chose your name?” Halo asked the brunette, sidling up next to him and mirroring his movements, leaning against the railing. Cheddar looked over his shoulder, shrugging casually in response.
“I like cheese. I like cheddar cheese,” he explained, mock-glaring when a laugh escaped from Halo’s lips. “I’m lactose intolerant, so I thought it was funny.”
Halo nodded seriously, his lips twitching into a smile. “Hilarious,” he deadpanned, yelping as Cheddar smacked him gently on the shoulder. They fell into a quiet state, watching the pristine blue of the lake reflect the sky above, wind rustling the leaves and providing a calm ambiance.
“Why do you like it here so much?” Cheddar asked, surprising Halo. “I mean, I’m not saying that I don’t like it. It’s just… most people don’t choose to spend a week of their life without showering and hanging out with annoying kids.”
Halo laughed at that description, standing next to Cheddar and bumping their hips together. Their breaks together are short and cherished, quiet glances and whispered words. “I don’t know.” Halo paused. “That’s a lie. I do know. I just… I love being able to change these kids' lives. It’s so much more fulfilling than I could have ever expected it to be. I mean, I’ve had these little kids come out to me, tell me about their home life, it’s just– it’s sort of magical, don’t you think?”
The air around them is quiet, besides the occasional birds chirping or frogs splashing into the water. Cheddar nodded dazedly, more focused on drinking in his surroundings than replying. “Yeah,” he said at last, looking over at Halo, green eyes meeting blue. Cheddar hadn’t noticed the speck of brown in Halo’s eyes before– like the earth manifesting itself into Halo, leaving an imprint on how much Halo really loved the outdoors. “It is magical to be here. With you.”
Halo’s lips curled up into a shy smile, and he looked away. “Careful,” he said, his voice teasing, “We gotta use friendly language, remember?”
Cheddar laughed, loud and boisterous. His head threw back when he laughed like this, and Halo could watch his Adams apple bob under his skin, and the way the sun filtered through his brown curls. He’s what’s most magical about this week, Halo decided then. “I think I’m being plenty friendly.” He moved his hand across the splintered wood, scarred knuckles glowing under the sun.
Halo raised an eyebrow, observing his every movement. The way Cheddar would wet his lips when anxious, look away, scratch at the nape of his neck. Halo saw it all. “Some may even say too friendly,” he countered, trying to maintain a grasp on his composure, for his love of the rules.
Cheddar was close, too close, but it was a welcoming sensation as Cheddar backed Halo against the railing, his big hands coming up to take Halo’s. His calloused fingers ran over Halo’s knuckles, and he smiled knowingly. As if saying I know your secret, and I’ll keep it.
“No such thing as too friendly,” Cheddar murmured in reply, one hand dropping down to fit easily around Halo’s hips, his hand warm and snug. It felt like a puzzle piece snapping into place, and Halo felt his chest heat up as they looked at each other.
“...Site Supe might disagree with that,” Halo whispered, watching Cheddar lean in closer and closer, lips puckered and eyes beginning to flutter closed. Halo closed his own eyes, leaning in, gripping Cheddar’s shirt tightly–
“Oh, shit, wait.” Halo’s eyes opened abruptly to see Cheddar leaning back, a cautious look on his face. “Do I have, uhhh. Uhh, your consent?” He asked, so genuine and awkward that Halo couldn’t help but laugh.
“Jesus, you suck at this,” Halo shook his head, pulling Cheddar in by his woodcookie and kissing him gently. Their lips moved together in sync, melding together to make the two boys whole. It was sweet and loving, all-consuming with the way they devoured each other’s lips. Cheddar’s hands came up to paw around Halo’s neck, settling easily at the nape of it while he combed his bulky fingers through Halo’s curls. The rickety railing squeaked under their weight as Halo pulled Cheddar in closer by the hips, tilting his head to better mouth at Cheddar’s lips.
Eventually, they had to pull away, hearing the sound of pattering feet and screaming children. They held each other tight, their bodies taut and stiff as the sound passed them. Halo shoved Cheddar’s shoulder playfully, his eyes glimmering with pure happiness. “You’re gonna get me into so much trouble.”
Cheddar grinned at him, wrapping his arms around Halo’s waist and pulling him close, laying a kiss upon his head. “Will not. I’m a law-abiding citizen,” he murmured, inhaling Halo’s scent– woodsy and light, like the feeling of laying under the shade on a hot day. “I’ll be good.”
The final night fell upon them like a dreary shadow, covering up the sun and keeping them in a gloomy mood for the whole day. Halo wasn’t used to this kind of mood at the end of the week, normally excited to leave the kids and go back to his normal life with only some reminiscing. But that was before he had met Cheddar.
Cheddar, with his brilliantly bright eyes and genuine smile. Cheddar, who’d opened up about his home life to Halo, crying into his lap late at night when the kids were tucked in. Cheddar, who was learning how to love just like how Halo was. Clumsy, considerate, beautiful Cheddar.
It was the last break. They were back at the gazebo where they'd been the first time they’d kissed, but they sat on opposite sides of the bench, not talking. Just watching the birds soaring into trees, chirping their songs. Bullfrogs croaked around the banks, and the peaceful lake lapped quietly along the edge of the dock where the gazebo stood. Cheddar’s hand was outstretched towards the middle of the bench. Halo didn’t take it.
“We can’t act like this isn’t happening,” Cheddar spoke up, forcing Halo to look over at him. “We knew it would end eventually. Don’t be mad.” He cocked his head, surveying Halo’s expression– not mad, exactly. More… regretful. “Are you mad? At me?”
Halo scoffed at that, toying with the beads strung along his paracord. He had a new one now, from Cheddar– a wedge of yellow cheese, and he put it on a safety pin of itself. “I’m not mad at you or just… mad at all,” he muttered, swallowing thickly and lowering his eyes. “I’m just gonna miss you.”
Cheddar nodded at that, his hand still laying limply, palm up. “I’ll miss you more,” he whispered, his voice dry and crackly, “I’ll be thinking about you. Every day.”
The wind rustled in the trees above them, sending bits of dandelion fluff and dry leaves across the air, floating around and in between them. Halo’s eyes followed the movements before returning his gaze to Cheddar, who looked close to tears. His vibrant green eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and he withdrew his hand, wiping at them.
“Was I good?” Cheddar asked, and Halo couldn’t help but laugh at the question, ducking his head and forcing his burning tears to stop welling up.
“Yeah. Yeah, you were good,” he answered, looking back up at Cheddar to watch the proud smile form across his lips, spreading wider with each passing second. “You were really good.”
Cheddar smiled proudly, and this time, Halo offered his hand. Palm up, fingers wiggling as he raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Five… four… three…”
The warmth of Cheddar’s hand in his was enough to still his anxious thoughts, the comforting weight pausing his racing mind. Halo smiled over at Cheddar, mimicking his happy grin. “Thanks.”
There was another long silence, the two boys feeling comfortable enough in the silence to just sit in it, let it surround them and cover their ears. Finally, Halo piped up.
“What’s your real name?” His voice was soft and quiet, like he didn’t want to hear Cheddar’s answer. As if he wanted to live the rest of his life remembering the other boy as a cheese.
Cheddar laughed, squeezing Halo’s hand gently and lovingly, his thumb tracing over his knuckles. “What’s yours?” he countered, peering over at the blonde, who just shrugged and grinned sheepishly.
“I don’t wanna tell you,” he admitted. “It’s gonna ruin the magic. I’ll tell you my real name and you’ll stop thinking I’m hot.” That drew a laugh from Cheddar, who shook his head.
“Nah. I’ll always think you’re hot,” he offered as reassurance. “Do you want me to go first?”
Halo hesitated before nodding, his free hand reaching up to fiddle with his beads. “Yeah, please.”
A tense silence fell upon them as Cheddar nodded, narrowing his eyes as he tried to remember his name, a good answer to give Halo. The breeze blew through his hair, brushing it back and tickling his ears. “I’m Patrick,” he said at last, his voice a quiet whisper as if praying.
Patrick. Halo repeated that name in his head, over and over again until it was engraved into the underside of his brain, the part where he learned to love. “Patrick,” he whispered aloud, the word sacred on his tongue. “It’s nice to meet you, Patrick. I’m Art.”
Halo could see Cheddar’s gears turning similarly, mouth opening and closing as he mouthed the name. Art. Cheddar’s lips upturned in a grin, pointy canines flashing in the sunlight. “That’s not a name, dumbass.”
It surprised Halo enough to make him laugh, a warm fluttery feeling blooming in his chest. “Yes, it is! That’s my name!” he argued, and the two boys dissolved into giggles, finally closing the gap between them on the bench and leaning against each other, laughing into each other’s skin and grasping to get closer.
“No, it’s not,” Cheddar whispered into Halo’s ear, pinching his side gently. “Your name is Halo. That’s always gonna be your name,” he punctuated his words with a short kiss to Halo’s cheek, trailing down to his neck.
Halo’s eyes closed at the feeling, pulling Cheddar close and meeting his lips one final time, breathing into each other’s mouths as they enjoyed the moment. The warmth emanating from their bodies being something hotter than the sunlight could ever provide, the way they held onto each other tight as if the other would dissolve into dust the second they let go. They kissed like the world was ending, and maybe it was, since they’d never see each other again. Maybe life would truly be over once they got off the site. Halo would go back to being Art, and Cheddar would go back to being Patrick, and their week in the woods would be a fantasy that they imagined in the depths of night.
They kiss harder, Halo being pulled onto Cheddar’s lap as he kissed the brunette hungrily, like kissing Cheddar would be the last thing Halo could do. He kissed like the world was burning down around them, like the second they stopped, Cheddar would disappear. Cheddar gripped frantically at the back of Halo’s shirt, his nails digging into the soft skin as he pulled him impossibly close, as if wanting to become one whole being.
In that moment, time seemed to stop. The week never ended. They could just keep being. Halo and Cheddar, Art and Patrick. They could just live, and love.
in your car, the radio up — part 2: i’m someone, you may be my love
an artrick au
warnings: some 18+ content in this one
word count: 2.4k
a/n: it wouldn't be a patrick centric fic if he wasn't gooning at some point
taglist (lmk to be added): @cosmic8tar @artstennisracket
prev part — next part— on ao3 — masterlist — blog masterlist (coming soon)
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 7 · in your car, the radio up — part 3: i’ll be your quiet afternoon crush · an artrick au
warnings: none for this one
word
At 6 AM, they would take a jog around the hillside track to wake them up. Even if you finished running your laps, you would have to keep going until the hour was up. Running wasn’t hard for Patrick, but he noticed that it went by a lot slower when he didn’t have anyone to talk to.
It wasn’t like he couldn’t talk to any of the other guys. Some of them were nice. There were a few conversations here and there, all small talk. Someone would ask him which lap he was on. Or offer him water. But otherwise, no one said much. Too focused.
At 7, there was a cold water plunge and guided breathing exercises. Patrick would partner up with Jan when they had to. They weren’t exactly friends yet, but it just felt natural. Jan wasn’t comfortable enough with any of the other athletes, and his minimal knowledge of English didn’t seem to help. Patrick found himself looking out for the guy a little.
Things usually started kicking up around 8. From then until lunch was pure technical training. Routines, drills, feedback. It was repetitive, but Patrick knew it was necessary. The coaches were strictly no-nonsense, which seemed to be the general attitude of nearly everyone there. One of the head coaches was a former pro— her nearly white blonde hair was never seen out of the stiff, slicked-back ponytail. She never raised her voice, but everyone was terrified of her.
On the first day, Patrick’s posture was corrected so aggressively that he felt like he was a Lego set that had been disassembled and rebuilt. And then there was his serve. Everyone seemed to love shitting on his serve.
“You’re strong, but you need to be careful,” they always said to him. Apparently, he lacked control. Reason. They made it sound like his gameplay was based purely on luck.
Annoyingly enough, some of the other trainees were stupidly good. There was a girl from Korea with the sharpest bob Patrick had ever seen who moved across the court as if she were weightless.
Right– girls. The thing about this training camp was that it wasn’t all boys, like Mark Rebellato. There were plenty of girls there, but it was hard to get a chance to talk to them. For the most part, guys were put on their own courts, and girls on theirs. The most Patrick could do was watch from afar when the coaches weren’t looking (but they almost always were).
So far, none of them had caught his eye, anyway. Maybe, for once, Patrick was setting his priorities straight.
He let out a laugh at that.
“What’s so funny, Zweig?” A shiny bald-headed coach barked at him.
“Uh, nothing,” Patrick cleared his throat. “Sorry. Sir.”
“It better be. Get back to drills.”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick muttered.
He was getting absolutely demolished.
Patrick would be lying if he said there wasn’t a moment when he felt like he was starting from zero. Like he was that scrawny rich kid all over again, learning to hold a racket for the first time. It was starting to feel less like playing for wins and more like playing to the death.
“Who knew hitting a ball with a racket could be this big of a fucking deal?” Patrick muttered to himself, wiping sweat from his brow.
“What was that, Zweig?” Bald coach again.
“I said you could really use a wig or something, I can’t see the court very well when the sun reflects off your head,” Patrick replied between pants.
He heard a few guys laugh. That was a start. But the laughter died as quickly as it came.
Baldy– real name Coach Herrera, former Davis Cup wildcard and full-time menace—turned, mouth in a thin line. His clipboard snapped shut with a clack that echoed.
“Zweig,” he said slowly. “You seem to think this is a comedy camp.”
Patrick blinked, then swallowed. “No, sir.”
“Then why are you standing on my court, in my country, running your mouth like you’re the one coaching me?”
Silence. The guys around him suddenly found their laces very interesting.
Patrick opened his mouth. Closed it.
Coach Herrera raised a hand, casually pointing toward the far side of the courts. “Cone drills. Now. And don’t stop until the sun stops reflecting off my head.”
Someone stifled a laugh. Patrick could have punched them.
He jogged to the cones—already set up in that cruel zigzag formation designed to humiliate—and dropped into a ready stance.
“Footwork. Ten passes through. Full sprint. No skipping.”
“And after that?” Patrick asked, his voice hoarse.
Coach Herrera didn’t blink. “Backpedal up the hill. Figure eights down. Five times.”
Patrick’s lungs nearly collapsed from the thought alone.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah.” Coach turned back toward the others. “You get one water break. If you puke, clean it up yourself.”
Just like that, practice resumed. The sound of balls slapping rackets, feet squeaking, and occasional curses filled the court. Patrick was left with nothing but burning thighs and a pair of cones he was starting to despise.
By the third sprint, his calves were screaming. By the fifth, his head felt like it was boiling from the inside out. Sweat blurred his vision, and his breaths came out like torn fabric.
But every time he passed the net, he heard someone shout “Vamos!” in his direction. Encouragement. But it felt more like mocking.
By the ninth set, he was stumbling. Dizzy. Done.
“Grab all your stuff and head to lunch. Be at the recovery center by 1,” Coach Herrera called out.
Patrick had never been more excited to eat bland and unseasoned food in his life.
…
Things weren’t much better even when Patrick wasn’t fighting for his life, sweating on the courts.
He thought about calling Art. He even considered texting Tashi. Or calling back his parents. But Wi-Fi sucked. Time zones made it hard to call home.
Patrick was lying on his bed in his boxers, still wet from the shower. He’d been sitting on the shower floor for nearly half an hour until Noah kicked him out of the bathroom, needing to take a piss.
He couldn’t even have a mental breakdown in peace anymore.
Now, he was on his phone again. The missed calls from his parents kept growing and growing like a stubborn weed. And not the kind that he liked. And missed. A lot.
God, getting high would feel so good right now.
Maybe it was the guilt or the fear or the pure exhaustion of it all, but Patrick found himself calling his mom.
Patrick’s mom wasn’t exactly loving, but that didn’t stop him from loving her. He didn’t think of her, but he missed her. When his dad hit him with harsh words and folded belts, his mom was… more careful. Not quite gentler, but when she hurt him, she didn’t mean to.
But she still did.
“Hello? Patrick?”
“Hey, Mom,” his voice came out quiet and cracked. Fuck.
“I’ve been trying to call you for weeks now. Did they take your phone away or something?” she asked, clearly distressed.
“No. Not yet, at least,” Patrick swallowed. Not the right thing to say. “I mean— yeah, no, they didn’t. I was just… I’ve been busy. Lots of training. And stuff.”
“I understand. I’m sure it’s overwhelming.”
“Yeah,” he found himself nodding. “Yeah. Definitely.”
There was a short pause. Patrick tried to think of something to say. A joke. Or something that might convince her that everything was going great. Just as long as he didn’t end up saying something stupid.
“Have you been making any friends?” came his mom’s voice.
Patrick nearly laughed out loud. “Uh, yeah, I guess. My bunkmates are…” he sighed. “They’re cool.”
Another pause. Patrick ran a hand through his hair, letting the damp curls fall back into place.
“You can call whenever you want, you know,” she said. “We always wonder what’s going on out there. Especially your father. He’s,” Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Curious. About the camp.”
Of course. The camp. Not me.
“It’s going well,” Patrick offered flatly.
“I know you probably don’t get much free time.”
“I don’t.”
“Have you been talking to your friends back home, though? How about that, uh… that boy. With the strange name, you always liked him. Art?”
Patrick felt something in his chest squeeze. He held the phone a little closer to his ear. “No, I… I haven’t. Been busy, like I said.”
Too busy thinking about calling him instead of actually doing it, more like.
“It’s good to keep in touch. You should, if you get the chance,” she was always trying to teach him a lesson. Trying to tell him things he already knew.
“I guess,” Patrick muttered.
“You were very close. It’s a shame to let good relationships like that die,” his mother went on, “you know what your father always says. Having good connections is always essential.”
“Right. Hey, Mom, I’ve been training all day, and I’m pretty pooped. Maybe I can call you again later?” He was starting to wonder why he even called in the first place.
He heard her let out a short breath, as if she were expecting him to make an excuse at any point in the conversation. “Alright. Get some rest,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later, Patrick.”
“Bye, mom.”
Beep.
Patrick collapsed onto the pillows.
So this was what it was like. Maybe Roger Federer had once been in this same spot, too. Waking up with aching bones. Getting scolded for hours a day. Then going to a bed that felt empty and cold and laughed at him at night.
If I were in a movie, maybe this is just the harsh training arc, Patrick thought. And I’ll come out stronger than ever.
That got a small smile out of him. Pretending he was in a movie. He’d be the main guy, center of every poster. Girls would probably think he was hot. And everyone would be so proud. Art would be his sidekick. No, maybe they’d be a duo. Like some kind of buddy-cop movie. Or it could be a movie where they never fought. And Patrick never fucked things up. Or maybe, in this movie, he’d grab his phone from underneath his pillow and call Art right now, and Art would pick up right away, and Patrick would apologize for everything he’d done and said and everything.
It was a dumb idea, he knew that. It would never happen. Patrick didn’t have the balls to even call. And Art definitely didn’t have the balls to answer.
But still, it wasn’t awful to think about.
Or, rather, to think about him. Patrick was so goddamn lonely that the only thing that seemed to make him feel even slightly better was thinking about Art.
He thought of all of the things that happened today that would make him laugh. Coach Herrera. Noah’s stupid accent. How sweaty and pathetic he must have looked when he finished all of the drills.
He thought of what Art was doing right now. Was he laughing right now? But who else could make him laugh the way that Patrick could? Was it Tashi? Did they talk? Did they talk about him? Did they kiss? Did he let her slip her tongue in first, just like Patrick did once in a hotel room with no AC?
Or maybe Art was on top of her. Fuck, that would be so hot, Patrick thought to himself. He imagined them laying on the beds they’d pushed together, Tashi laying underneath Art. Art would kiss her the way Patrick always taught him to, he knew he would. Slowly, at first, letting his hands find their place, then it would all come in a rush of lips and teeth and bodies, hot and fast.
Patrick imagined Art undressing her first, being the gentleman he was. But Patrick knew he wasn’t really a gentleman. He knew Art could be filthy. Could say things so unimaginably dirty. He knew the kind of porn he watched. His favorite position to fuck in.
He didn’t need to try it out to know. He just knew.
Patrick realized his hand had snaked underneath his boxers.
He let out a low groan. Thankfully, Jan and Noah had gone out with a few other guys to work out, which to Patrick, didn’t make much sense since they spent practically all day working out anyway. But right now, he was trying to find peace in the fact that he was alone. He wasn’t exactly quiet.
And that was how Art had found out when they were 12. It was almost funny to think about it now— a version of Art that was young, innocent. An Art that wasn’t afraid to ask something as bold as ‘what are you doing?’ ‘Can you show me how?’
Now, Patrick wasn’t sure if Art would ever say anything to him ever again.
He tried to remember what his dick looked like.
Art had the most hairless body Patrick had ever seen, but he always had a little thatch of hair right at the base. He never liked shaving there. Too sensitive, he always said. Patrick wondered if he could make Art cum just by touching him there.
He imagined Tashi sucking him off. No, that felt wrong. Maybe Art eating her out. Yeah, that would be sexy. He’d get his face all wet, licking the thing. He’d probably be too scared to use his tongue at first, but when he did, she’d love it. Gripping his hair, tugging at it, moaning his name, Art, yes— Art, Art, Art—
Patrick came with a shout.
He looked down at himself, cursing quietly. Bet I like a kid who spilled milk all over himself, he thought ruefully. Common mistake.
He was too tired to really care by now. Patrick grabbed a sweaty towel from the floor, wiping the drying cum off of himself before flinging it across the room. He didn’t have the energy to think about how fast he’d cum. Or what he’d been thinking about that led to that. Or the crippling guilt that was starting to settle into his gut where a pool of arousal had just been.
He grabbed the blanket, which was crumpled near the foot of the bed, and pulled it over himself. His phone slid out from under the pillow. Flipped it open. One notification.
Patrick blinked his heavy eyes at the pixellated screen, unsure if he was reading things correctly or if post-orgasm haze was really messing with his head.
in your car, the radio up — part 1: we keep trying to talk about us
an artrick au
warnings: none for this chapter!
word count: 1.7k
a/n: this one is a little short, i promise it gets better!
taglist (lmk to be added): @cosmic8tar @artstennisracket
next part — on ao3 — masterlist — blog masterlist (coming soon)
“This is a good start.”
Patrick usually didn’t like having to deal with the weight of responsibilities. Decisions. Those were meant for people who liked to be, well, weighed down by all the heavy and icky things like stress. People like his coach. Dave.
“You’ve got a good road ahead of you. Solid funds. Sponsors. The money’s really the hardest part sometimes, you know.”
For the most part, Patrick liked his coach.
But he hated it when he was wrong.
He hated it even more when he would start repeating himself. Especially when he wasn’t sure if Dave was talking to him or himself.
“It’s a good start. Really good,” he kept saying.
“I get it,” Patrick snapped. It came out harsher than he’d expected, but he made no move to apologize. “Can you, like… go find something else to do? I’m trying to get some sleep here, man.”
Dave let out a sigh. “There isn’t exactly much to do on this plane, Patrick. And maybe you wouldn’t be so tired if you went to bed early, like I told you to.”
Patrick turned his head away, leaning into the side of the headrest. “Yeah, yeah. I get it,” he mumbled into the cushion. Alright, Mom, he wanted to say. It wasn’t worth the energy.
He knew Dave meant well. He just needed him to shut up sometimes. Or all the time.
Patrick really needed to sleep.
He closed his eyes, trying to relax as best as he could. His eyes managed to shut, but like always, his mind couldn’t shut off.
He thought of food, at first. He hadn’t eaten all day, and that was probably making him feel even shittier. He wondered what he would eat once he landed. Probably a sandwich. Maybe. One of the cold ones from the gas station, the ones with slimy cheese and lettuce and some mystery slice of meat that Art would always take out because he claimed he ‘didn’t want to consume anything that he didn’t know what was made of’.
Oh.
Art. Right.
Somehow, his thoughts always went back to him, no matter what he tried to think about. Most of the time, it would be something completely random. People. Girls. Tennis. Even if he didn’t try to start thinking about Art, he would start thinking about tennis anyway, and anything that had to do with tennis always, always led to Art.
(Or Tashi. But Patrick was trying not to think about Tashi.)
He hated that the one thing he thought of before he fell asleep always ended up being Art. The first thing he thought of when he woke up. Art.
Patrick, get the fuck out! He could still hear it in his head. The exact way he said it. A shout, so full and unrestrained that Patrick knew it was real. (Even though he wished it wasn’t.)
Such a stupid thing to say. All of this was stupid. Art was in every match he watched. In the sound of every tennis ball thwacking on a court, echoing every time. Art, Art, Art.
Patrick saw his face when he closed his eyes, especially on the nights he couldn’t sleep. Which was almost always. He would think about the last time he saw him. How he looked. Angry. Unfamiliar. Patrick would think and think and think about that stupid, ugly expression he had until the memory tired itself out, and then Art looked beautiful to him again.
For once, Patrick fell asleep much quicker than he had in a long time.
About 7 hours later…
They first landed in Spain. Dave told him that most guys started out in the California training camps, but Patrick was lucky. He was starting to get sick of hearing that word. Lucky.
The first thing he noticed was that it was hot. The heat hit him like a slap in the face—dry and itchy and golden. There was a cacophony of accents as well — Spanish, French, Korean, Russian—athletes from all over. But, in a way, they all still acted the same as the guys from Mark Rebellato. Talked too loudly. Clapped each other on the back. Shoulders. Laughed at things that weren’t funny at all. Patrick didn’t have to understand what was being said to know what was a good joke and what wasn’t. If Art were here, he’d tease him for observing everyone so closely. Would tell him he was being a creep.
Art’s not fucking here, Patrick scolded himself. He shook his head and followed the shuffling line of new guys walking in. He probably needed sleep. Jet lag or whatever.
Mark Rebellato had already been a task to get used to when it came to the sheer scale and intensity of it all, but this was way different. The training camp was a prestigious sun-bleached sports facility just outside Barcelona, perched near the foothills. In terms of how much it screamed ‘rich people’, it just about checked all of the boxes. Stone paths, open-air courtyards, and that almost uncanny sleekness to every ridge and groove of each building.
Facility-wise, Patrick learned quickly that the place was strict. They had the dorm-style rooms he was used to, but he’d have two bunkmates instead of one. There were firm 6 AM wake-up calls, so he could say goodbye to staying up late playing games or getting high (although Patrick was starting to realize he probably wouldn’t be able to find a way to do those things in the first place), and no phones in training areas (he didn’t really have anyone to call or text anymore anyway, so this one wasn’t so bad).
Patrick was placed in a room with a quiet Polish boy named Jan (which was not pronounced like John, apparently) and an Australian loudmouth whose name Patrick had forgotten already amid his constant blabbering about protein intake.
Jan reminded Patrick of, unfortunately, Art. They weren’t exactly the same, but Patrick couldn't ignore the similarities. He tended to fidget with his hands. He let Patrick lead the conversation and only added to it when it was something he felt strongly about. The worst part was that he had the same stupid sandy hair, and when Patrick only saw his back, he could almost imagine for a second that it really was Art.
Patrick didn’t mind the guy. But Noah (Patrick had to steal a glance at the label on his bag) was different. He was the kind of guy that he and Art would always poke fun at. A know-it-all who wouldn’t shut the fuck up. And every time he spoke (which was clearly a lot), he did this obnoxious thing at the end of every sentence where his voice got a little deeper, and Patrick knew for a fact that was not something most people with an Australian accent did from watching two episodes of H2O: Just Add Water with Art when they were high once.
“I hope you guys brought protein jellies,” Noah was rummaging through his almost comically large bag of… something. Patrick assumed it was mostly clothes and gear at first, but so far, all he had seen come out of it was some kind of food and a ridiculously worn-down teddy bear.
“My coach always gives me the sour flavored ones before a match. It’s kind of my lucky charm,” he kept saying. “I think it’s because of the maltodextrin. Plus, the sourness helps stimulate saliva and digestion. But we couldn’t find any around here, only the sweet ones. And I hate anything with vanilla in it. Makes me constipated.”
“I like bananas,” Jan said uselessly. He didn’t seem to speak English very well.
“Bananas,” Noah echoed. “An excellent choice. Very rich in natural sugars. Wonderful for fluid balance. Have you tried them with citrus? Makes them more sour.”
Art always made smoothies before a match, Patrick thought to himself. The shitty blender would always wake me up. He would use bananas, even though they made the entire thing taste like it. And he liked vanilla protein powder. The idiot always had a sweet tooth. But it worked. It always did.
Patrick had practically given up on trying not to think about him. It was just about as impossible as trying not to think about tennis at a tennis training camp. Because tennis meant Art and Art meant—
“Oi,” Noah was snapping his fingers at him. “Mate. We’re talking to you. You want a protein bar? I’ve got one of the gross vanilla ones and Jan doesn’t want it.”
Patrick blinked. “Oh. Uh,” he shrugged, letting out a breathless little laugh. “Sure. Fuck it. I… I love vanilla.”
Noah raised an eyebrow, but tossed the bar over to him. “Whatever, man.”
Patrick ended up shoving the bar into the side pocket of his duffel bag. He hadn’t had a proper chance to empty it, since he’d accidentally slept in on the day he was supposed to be packing. He’d gotten used to relying on Art’s alarm. The blaring beeping noise had always jerked him awake, no matter how many times he heard it.
The other two guys were immersed in conversation now, if you could even call it that. It was more of a lecture, if anything, with poor Jan struggling to nod along as Noah went on about something that had to do with glucose. Patrick dug out his phone, opening his messages. A missed call from Dave. Two missed calls from his dad. One from his mom.
He switched over to the clock function, setting an alarm for 5:45 AM. If he was going to wake up that early every day from now on, he figured he might as well try to maximize his sleeping time. It wasn’t like throwing on tennis gear and heading to the courts took any longer than fifteen minutes, anyway. The current time flashed on his screen: 9:57 PM. Three minutes until lights out. Normally, the thought of heading to sleep earlier than at least 11 felt almost like a sin to Patrick. But right now, all he felt was exhausted. And frankly, he didn’t feel like risking getting in trouble for staying up on his first night here.
Patrick tossed his phone haphazardly, hoping it landed somewhere within reach. The bed felt too soft. The darkness was too dark.
Yet the quiet was somehow never quiet enough when there was still one person that was all he could think about.
