NOW PLAYING ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. summerboy — lady gaga
summerboy!art, who keeps a disposable camera in his back pocket specifically to take blurry, overexposed photos of you when you're not looking—you squinting into the sun with a slurpee mustache, you mid-laugh with sand stuck to your wet shoulder, you asleep in the passenger seat of patrick's uncle's beat-up civic with your mouth open and your hair a disaster. he gets them developed at the cvs and hides the packet under his mattress like they're contraband. patrick finds them once and art tackles him so hard they both go through the screen door. "she's gonna think you're a creep," patrick wheezes, but art just snatches the photos back and mutters "shut up" while his ears turn red. later that night he slips his favorite one—you in your striped bikini, mid-cannonball, arms spread like wings—into his wallet behind his lifeguard certification card.
summerboy!patrick, who steals your cherry chapstick and then pretends he doesn't know where it went, even though you can literally see the waxy red smudge on his bottom lip when he's talking to you. he'll lean against the boardwalk railing, all cocky and sun-drunk, going "maybe you left it at the beach house?" while actively licking his lips. art calls him out every time—"dude, it's literally on your mouth"—and patrick just shrugs like he's been caught shoplifting candy. "tastes better on her anyway," he says, and then tosses the tube back to you with this shit-eating grin. you want to be mad but he looks so stupidly pleased with himself, hair bleached almost white from the salt water, freckles multiplying across his nose like connect-the-dots.
summerboy!art, who gets genuinely upset when you and patrick team up against him in the pool, even though it happens every single time. he'll surface, sputtering and indignant, pointing between you two like he's filing a formal complaint. "that's not fair! you can't both dunk me!" meanwhile you're clinging to patrick's shoulders, both of you cackling, and patrick's got this arm around your waist that lingers just a beat too long after you've stopped trying to drown art. art notices everything—the way patrick's thumb traces the tie of your bikini bottom, how you press your face into patrick's neck when you're laughing too hard to breathe. later, when you're all sprawled on pool floats, art "accidentally" tips patrick into the water and then offers you his raft with the kind of courteous sweetness that makes patrick roll his eyes so hard you can hear it.
summerboy!patrick, who absolutely loses his mind when you wear his Red Sox cap backward while driving his uncle's boat, even though you have no idea what you're doing and nearly crash into the dock twice. something about you in his hat, squinting against the sun with your hair whipping around your face, makes him forget how to form sentences. art has to grab the wheel because patrick's just standing there staring at you like you've grown a second head. "earth to patrick," art mutters, but patrick's already fishing his phone out of his swim trunks to take a picture. the photo's terrible—blurry and overexposed—but he sets it as his wallpaper anyway and then gets weirdly possessive about his phone for the rest of the summer.
summerboy!art, who memorizes your dunkin order (medium iced coffee, oat milk, two sugars, extra shot) and places it for you every morning without being asked, even though patrick always makes fun of him for being "whipped" and you insist you can order for yourself. he just shrugs it off, sliding the plastic cup across the sticky table of whatever diner you've invaded that day, still in your wrinkled hoodies and yesterday's swimsuits, sunglasses pushed up on your heads, trying to look less high than you obviously are. the waitress always gives you dirty looks—three teenagers in various stages of undress, reeking of chlorine and weed, giggling over shared pancakes at 2pm—but art tips her extra anyway because his mom raised him right.
summerboy!patrick, who gets irrationally jealous when the lifeguard at the public beach (some college guy with a perfect tan and a whistle he actually uses) asks for your number, even though you very obviously shut him down. patrick spends the rest of the day making increasingly ridiculous comments about "whistle boy"—how his tan is definitely fake, how he probably can't even swim that well, how his sunglasses are stupid expensive and probably don't even have uv protection. art tries to change the subject but patrick's on a roll, practicing his own lifeguard poses and asking if you think he'd look good in red shorts. "you already look good," you say without thinking, and patrick goes quiet for exactly three seconds before grinning so wide you think his face might crack.
summerboy!art, who always insists on being the one to put sunscreen on your back, even though his hands shake a little when he touches you and he takes way longer than necessary, fingers tracing the line of your shoulder blades like he's memorizing the geography of your skin. patrick watches from his beach chair, pretending to read some trashy paperback he found in his uncle's basement, but you can feel his eyes on you over the top of the pages. art's touch is gentle, reverent almost, smoothing the lotion in careful circles while you try not to shiver despite the ninety-degree heat. "you burn easy," he murmurs, but his voice sounds rougher than usual. patrick clears his throat loudly and art's hands still for a moment before he caps the bottle and hands it over. "your turn," art says, but patrick just smirks and says he doesn't burn, even though you've all seen him lobster-red after forgetting to reapply.
summerboy!patrick, who has absolutely no filter when he's stoned, which is most of the time, and says things that make art kick him under the table at whatever greasy spoon you've stumbled into after hours of swimming and sun. you'll be sitting in a corner booth, your hoodie strings pulled so tight only your eyes are visible, sharing a plate of cheese fries and trying not to look as obviously baked as you are, when patrick will just blurt out something like "you have really nice collarbones" or "your laugh makes my chest feel weird." art goes red and starts aggressively stirring his milkshake while you blink at patrick from inside your hoodie cave. "what?" patrick says, genuinely confused by the sudden tension. "it's true." the waitress refills your water glasses and pretends not to notice when you all dissolve into hysterical giggles.
summerboy!art, who starts leaving little gifts in your beach bag when you're not looking—a perfect seashell, a smooth piece of sea glass, those stupid temporary tattoos from the boardwalk prize counter that you mentioned liking once. you never see him do it, but you know it's him because patrick would just hand you stuff directly, probably while making some joke about how you owe him. art's gifts are always tucked between your towel and sunscreen like secrets, and when you thank him he just ducks his head and mumbles something about how he "saw it and thought of you." patrick rolls his eyes but there's something soft in his expression when he watches art watch you peel a dolphin tattoo off its backing and press it to your ankle.
summerboy!patrick, who gets weirdly competitive about the dumbest things when you're around—who can hold their breath longest underwater, who can shotgun a beer faster, who can do a better backflip off the pier—and then gets sulky when art inevitably wins because art actually played sports in school while patrick's main hobby is smoking weed behind the tennis courts. you always compliment patrick's attempt anyway, tell him his form was better or his technique was more creative, and he lights up like you've just told him he's won an olympic medal. art notices the way patrick preens under your attention and starts letting him win sometimes, which patrick absolutely does not catch onto but makes him insufferably smug for the rest of the day.
summerboy!art, who gets so worried about you when you're swimming in the ocean that he hovers like an anxious lifeguard, staying close enough to grab you if a wave looks too big or the current seems too strong. patrick makes fun of him for being a "mother hen" but secretly thinks it's sweet, how art's eyes never leave you when you're in the water, how he counts the seconds when you dive under and visibly relaxes when you surface. "she's not gonna drown in three feet of water," patrick says, but he doesn't move any farther from shore either. when you finally trudge back to your towel, hair dripping and skin gritty with sand, they both look at you like you've returned from some dangerous expedition instead of just bodysurfing for twenty minutes.
summerboy!patrick, who steals sips of your drinks constantly—your slurpee, your iced coffee, your water bottle, whatever—and always does it with a ridiculous grin like he's the cleverest guy alive. art groans every time and makes exaggerated gagging noises, but you know patrick's just doing it to get a reaction out of both of you. when you finally catch him mid-sip, you glare and he shrugs, saying "can't help it. tastes better when it's yours." later he tries to be sneaky and swipes a fry off your plate but art catches him and calls him out, so patrick dramatically pretends to drop the fry on the floor and mourns its loss like a tragic hero. you laugh so hard your sides hurt.
summerboy!art, who falls asleep on the beach every single day, sunbaked and exhausted, with the faint scent of coconut sunscreen and sea salt in his hair. patrick teases him for it, saying art looks like a baby seal wrapped in a beach towel, but art doesn't care. sometimes you lie down next to him and both of you just stare up at the sky until the clouds change shapes and the world feels quiet and small. patrick joins in sometimes, but he always complains when he has to stop talking. art just smiles and closes his eyes, the weight of the summer settling into his bones like a secret promise.
summerboy!patrick, who insists on taking you to the boardwalk arcade at least once a week, even though you hate the noise and the sticky floors and the way the lights make your head spin. he drags you from game to game, laughing when you accidentally win tickets on the claw machine or beat him at skee-ball, crowing like a little kid when he finally nails the timing on the basketball toss. art watches from the sidelines, arms crossed but clearly amused, occasionally stepping in to show off his own skills and steal some tickets for you. patrick ends up with a ridiculous pile of plastic prizes that he insists are "for you," even though half of them end up in his backpack and art is secretly amused by the whole ridiculousness.
summerboy!art, who texts you pictures of the sky at sunset—pinks and purples and oranges melting into one another—when you're not with him, sometimes with a simple message: "wish u were here." patrick sees the texts and rolls his eyes but you can tell it means something. when you finally meet up again, art pulls you aside and presses a cool hand to your forehead, smiling softly and saying, "you look like you need the ocean." and you do, more than you realize, because the sun is warm on your skin and the waves sound like home and art's hand is the only steady thing you can hold onto.
summerboy!patrick, who never actually learns how to surf properly but is always first to volunteer when the surf instructor calls for volunteers. he tries his best, falling off the board more times than you can count, face-planting into the water with a splash and a groan. art laughs but never mocks, instead cheering patrick on and helping him get back on the board. patrick gets this ridiculous look of determination on his face whenever he finally manages to stand up for even a second, like he's just conquered the world. you grin and take a million pictures because it's the most earnest, adorable thing you've ever seen.
summerboy!art, who gets shy when you catch him staring but then quickly tries to act cool, pushing his sunglasses up his nose and running a hand through his damp hair. patrick always calls him out, making some snarky comment about "sunscreen smudges on the lenses" or "the way his lip twitches when he sees u," and art just groans, burying his face in his towel. but you see it—the way his eyes light up, the way his whole body relaxes when you're near. it's like the sun breaks through the clouds just for you two.
summerboy!patrick, who sneaks off to the ice cream stand and buys you a double scoop cone of your favorite flavor when he thinks no one is looking. he hands it to you with a goofy grin and says, "don't tell art, or he'll make me share." you pretend to scold him but really you're thrilled, because nobody knows the way to your heart better than patrick does—even if his methods are a little childish. art just shakes his head but you catch a flash of something tender in his gaze when he watches you lick the ice cream, sticky and sun-kissed and perfectly happy.
summerboy!art, who always has a book in his backpack, usually something heavy and dusty that he reads by the water while the sun sets. he reads poetry mostly, or old stories about the sea, and sometimes he recites lines quietly to you, voice low and intimate like he's sharing a secret. patrick sometimes tries to join in, making exaggerated gestures and goofy voices, but art just smiles and rolls his eyes, happy to have you both there even if it's ridiculous. these quiet moments, with the ocean roaring behind you and the sky turning violet, feel like the only place you really belong.
summerboy!patrick, who laughs way too loud at his own jokes, which are usually terrible puns about the ocean or summer or your messy hair after swimming. art groans and buries his face in his hands, but you just shake your head and smile because patrick's laugh is contagious and it makes everything feel lighter, like the sun is always shining even when the sky is gray. when he looks at you with those bright eyes and that goofy grin, it's like the whole world is nothing but endless summer and possibilities.
summerboy!art, who stays up late with you on the roof of patrick's uncle's beach house, watching the stars blink awake over the dark ocean. you lie side by side on a threadbare blanket, shoulders touching, and art points out constellations he's learned from his grandfather. sometimes you talk quietly about the future—college, moving away, whether the summer will end or if you can somehow keep it alive forever. patrick joins you sometimes but mostly just listens, letting you two have your moments while he fiddles with his camera or scrolls through his phone. the night smells like salt and jasmine and promise.
summerboy!patrick, who accidentally calls you by art's name once during a kiss, and then immediately apologizes like he's confessed a sin. art just laughs and tells him to chill, saying "as long as you don't call me patrick, we're good." you roll your eyes but you can tell it means something, this tangled mess of affection and confusion and longing that makes the summer so unforgettable. and somehow, even with all the awkwardness and sunburns and endless teasing, you wouldn't trade a single second of it.
