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Touching Patrick hadn’t always felt like this.
When they were young, everything was so innocent—no stakes in their games, no girls to fight over. They argued over who deserved the last slice of pizza and wrestled for fun and nobody questioned how they were always attached at the hip, because it was normal for little boys to be so close, to ruffle one another’s hair and tackle each other on the tennis court.
Now that they’re older, their long limbs and stubbled faces and the pressure of the sport and the desire for the same girl and all of it accumulating into a stress that makes Patrick smoke more and Art push himself harder, every touch makes Art feel…different.
Ever since they had made out in front of Tashi, there was an unspoken tension in the air, and it was killing Art more than knowing that Patrick had won the game, had won Tashi by proxy. Because Art had liked it, and he wasn’t sure if Patrick had, too, or if it had freaked him out, somehow scared him off.
He’s treading carefully, letting Patrick take the lead, never being the first to initiate physical contact, afraid his best friend would not reciprocate, or worse, flinch away, and his heart wouldn’t be able to handle that.
Every accidental brush of their shoulders feels electric, and Art wants to crawl out of his skin because he is too aware of Patrick now, has felt that stubbled chin against his, knows exactly what his little muffled moans sound like when Art had tentatively nipped at his bottom lip, and he can’t go back to the days when they were naïve to such concepts, when they didn’t have to worry about anyone thinking too deeply into their connection.
And because Patrick knows him better than anyone else, he notices the way that Art has pulled back, but talking about their feelings isn’t really their strong suit. They speak in euphemisms to avoid the discomfort of admission or apology, and they kick each other’s asses in tennis to cope with any underlying emotions.
Patrick fiddles with his lighter. “You’re, uh…not mad about me and Tashi?”
Art shrugs. “I’m not mad. You won.”
He opens his mouth and closes it again, and Art can imagine the words he’s mulling over in his mind, and he frankly wants to hear none of them. Lately he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about them both, Tashi and Patrick, together, usually with Art there, too, and he’s surprised that Patrick hasn’t caught onto his wet dreams yet considering he’s begun doing laundry twice as often as he used to.
He cuts Patrick off before he can say anything else: “It’s not a big deal, genuinely.”
Those eyes stare at him puppy doglike, and Art melts when Patrick says, “…I thought you were mad at me.”
Art breaks his own rule and leans in, bumping their shoulders together. “M’not. Promise.”
Patrick’s lips curl into a smile. “Good. I need the ice to my fire.”
“I thought we agreed that I was fire,” Art replies.
“Nah, I’m definitely fire.”
“And why’s that?”
“Cause I’m hotter than you.”
Art laughs and shoves him, hard, and Patrick shoves him back until they’re sprawled on their hotel room carpet, pushing and slapping and poking until Patrick jabs Art in the ribs and makes him gasp and twitch away.
Art tries to give him an intimidating enough glare to deter him, but Patrick just grins and pounces with a newfound vigor, hands easily slotting into the curve of Art’s waist and squeezing repeatedly.
The sound he makes can only be described as a yelp before he dissolves into giggles, and for a moment, it feels silly and innocent and ridiculous, like the old them, and Art feels innocent, like his pre-Tashi self, who doesn’t overthink his touchy-feely relationship with his best friend or question if every guy thinks his best friend is that good-looking.
Art’s already weak and pliant with laughter as Patrick straddles him and doesn’t relent, drilling thumbs into his hips, scratching over his stomach, prodding that vulnerable space between every rib. He squirms and thrashes and tries to buck Patrick off, but he very quickly realizes that that’s a mistake, because he is essentially grinding himself right onto Patrick’s ass, and he is suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that his cock has started to stiffen.
“That’s enough,” he grits out, regaining some composure to try and grab Patrick’s wrists, like if he can get him to stop now, his growing hard-on will stop growing, or at the very least, it will go unnoticed.
“You can take more than that,” Patrick replies, matter of fact, because he knows Art’s body and his limits and he’s tickled him way longer, way more intensely than this.
Patrick’s always been the more dominant one between the two of them, leading Art around like a dog on a leash to parties and other bad decisions. He knew more about sex and smoking and all those taboo things that Art had been sheltered from. Art trusted him and often followed his lead, and on the rare occasions he disagreed, Patrick could get him to give in with bribery or threats of blackmail he’d never follow through on, and more often than not, tickling him to pieces.
It’s never been a problem until now. Art always found it fun, maybe protested a little more than he actually meant, but he’d never found it hot or arousing, but then again, he hadn’t begun to look at Patrick like that until very recently, and now it seemed that everything Patrick did was alluring rather than annoying.
Art can’t help the whine that escapes him when Patrick pushes up his t-shirt and scribbles over his lower belly, dangerously close to his crotch, and Art tries to squirm in a way that will dislodge him without rutting up into him again, but his body isn’t under his control, it’s under Patrick’s, which both petrifies and thrills him.
He finds a sweet spot underneath Art’s arm and his back arches, hips lifting, and he can see through teary eyes the look of realization on Patrick’s face as Art’s erection presses into him. The tickling stops abruptly, and Art can’t decide whether he should suck in a breath or start apologizing first.
Before his brain can catch up, Patrick seems to unfreeze. He doesn’t get off of Art, doesn’t make his hands from his body, just stares down at him, the cogs in his brain clearly whirring beneath that head of curls.
“Is that why you haven’t been touching me?” Patrick finally asks, his voice soft. “You were scared that you’d…”
“Shut up,” Art replies breathlessly. He squeezes his eyes shut, turns his head away, his cheeks red and a feeling of dread bubbling in his stomach.
“Art…”
Patrick puts a hand on his shoulder, still not moving from his spot on top of him.
Art dares to open his eyes, sneaking a glance at Patrick, only to see that he’s smirking.
“Ever since that night with Tashi…” and of course, this was somehow all her fault, making them notice the unspoken something between them, “I’ve been thinking about it.”
“About what?” Art asks, his voice hoarse.
“This. Us,” Patrick says, gesturing to the few inches between their faces. “You, like this…”
Art’s face burns, but he dares to turn his face back towards Patrick, taking in his slightly parted lips, his flushed cheeks, the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, and most of all, the almost lustful look in his eyes.
“I just didn’t think tickling was gonna be what turned you on,” Patrick teases.
Art wiggles an arm free to pinch his leg. “Fuck off,” he says because he can’t even argue or defend himself against that point. He’s never found it hot before, and yet, now with his new image of Patrick as someone he desired, everything felt newly charged and erotic.
Patrick leaned down like he was going to kiss him, and Art’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest, but Patrick feigned to the right and attached his lips to the side of Art’s neck and blew an obnoxious, wet raspberry into the crook of it.
He let out an honest-to-god shriek, trying desperately to tickle Patrick back, fingers fumbling at his thighs and only getting a snort of amusement in return, because he couldn’t reach any of Patrick’s bad spots like this, and the bastard knew it.
Art wasn’t sure whether he was going to kill him or fuck him when he got out of his hold, or maybe both, he’d figure that out later. He whimpered out a soft “cut it out” and Patrick took pity on him, switching to soft kisses against the skin of his throat that had him whimpering for a whole different reason.
Time seems to move in slow motion, then, as Patrick lets Art sit up and practically crawls into his lap, Art’s fingers tangling in his curly hair, as Patrick angles their hips just right so their cocks can rub together through the thin material of their shorts.
“Haven’t stopped thinking about this,” Patrick murmurs against his lips. “Since that night, fuck, I’ve wanted to kiss you again…”
“Me too,” Art breathes, nipping at his lip like he had that night, and Patrick makes the same pleased little groan in the back of his throat, and Art almost cums on the spot, but he has to hold out, has to make this moment last in case it never happens again, in case this is all chalked up to be a stupid mistake in their lifelong friendship.
Patrick bucks his hips, rubbing against Art more deliberately, and Art captured his lips in a desperate kiss again. Art palms at Patrick’s cock before wrapping his hand around them both, trying to keep a steady rhythm.
They’ve always been so in tune with one another, on the tennis court and off, so it makes sense that they’d be the same in the bedroom, their orgasms building at the same speed, and when Art cums, Patrick follows almost immediately.
The aftermath isn’t as awkward as Art had feared. They sit like that for a moment, holding one another close, not daring to ask what this means or what will change now, just savoring the moment. They start to clean themselves up, the silence thick but not necessarily uncomfortable, because Art thinks there’s very little that can happen between them that will change them.
They’re a dynamic duo; Art and Patrick, fire and ice. It’s not a big deal. He won’t let it become a big deal. He breaks the silence.
“Maybe next time, we can invite Tashi,” Art suggests with a grin.
Patrick rolls his eyes and squeezes Art’s hip in response and delightedly discovers that he’s twice as ticklish post-orgasm, and Art imagines it’s going to be a long night.