They’re lying on the poolside sunbathing when Tashi strikes. Art is lazily listening to Lily, shrieking in the distance as she runs through the sprinklers with a friend, his feet dangling into the pool. He’s thinking idly of going to chop some fruit for the kids, and is therefore completely unprepared for his wife to say, out of nowhere,
“Do you want this thing with Patrick to work?”
This thing with Patrick is the fact that Patrick is living in their house and eating their food, being a general menace and having really, really mindblowing sex with them on a regular basis. As fair as Art is aware, it is working.
“Do you want it to?”
"Art."
The water at his feet is cold, and the idea of slipping into the pool and away from this conversation is unbelievably tempting. Art sighs and sits up instead, squinting down at his wife. She stares back, inscrutable. She’s wearing her biggest sunglasses, and Art can see reflections of his own confused face in them.
“I thought it was working.” He admits, cautiously. “I thought it was going well?”
It’s certainly going well for him. Jason Goodall described his most recent match as “the kind you dream about,” and Tashi has started watching every practice with the hungry, furious gaze of a woman with serious plans for the US Open. Art has always been acutely aware of his own selfishness, and having Patrick under his roof eases an ache in him. He likes having the people he cares about in one place.
“It is going well,” Tashi says, gentler. “Which is why you should have sex with Patrick.”
There’s a pause. “I am having sex with Patrick.” Art points out. “You were there.”
“I know.” Tashi says, ominously light. “But you should have sex without me.” Her hand curls lightly around his knee, coaxing. Art has the awful, sinking feeling of walking blindly into a trap.
“Why?”
“Because.” Tashi says, still petting him, “You really, really want to.”
She looks so calm, even as Art wants to run and hide. Wants to bury his face in her lap and deny it, because he can’t. Wanting Patrick and Tashi together is easy. Plenty of people wish they were having threesomes with athletes. Patrick alone is something else altogether, something that makes him start to sweat with panic. He can’t know, he wants to say, stupidly. He has quite literally had Patrick’s dick in his mouth. Patrick’s frankly a little too confident about how much Art wants him, and yet the thought of admitting it feels like dying. Like being fourteen and stupid and wanting Patrick all the f*cking time, wanting to talk to him and touch him and laugh at him and pretend not to think about their thighs touching as Patrick described making out with Sasha Fernandez in as much detail as he could come up with.
“What if I don’t?” He says, and even he can hear the doubt in his own voice.
“I’m out all day tomorrow,” Tashi says instead. “Girls’ trip with Lily and Mom. Work it out without me, like brave boys.”
Art pouts on instinct. Tashi raises a single brow, smirks. “Tell me all about it, after.” she says, a command, and is up and heading for the house before he can say anything else.
f*ck.
Art spends the rest of the day on edge. Patrick arrives back from a grocery run with a clatter of keys and laughter, apparently unaware of Art’s turmoil. He’s bought a deeply useless selection of items, which means Tashi definitely told him to get out of the way so she could get Art alone, so she could tell him to have sex with Patrick.
He bought peaches though, so Art at least feels panicked and sorry for himself while devouring stone fruits. Lily and her friend watch Moana and Ponyo while he cooks them tea, and he drives the kid home afterwards, Lily along for the ride so she can chat. He drives back with Lily fast asleep in the passenger seat, and guiltily does a few extra, circling laps of the neighbourhood while he tries to figure out what he’s going to tell Tashi if she asks him if he wants to have sex with Patrick again. She doesn’t, though, and Patrick is in his own room for once, so Art is left to stare at his bedroom ceiling and try to think about anything else. Tashi kisses the curve of his shoulder, sharply sweet, and he rolls into her and tries to forget anyone else exists.
He wakes up habitually early the next morning to an empty bed. He runs through breakfast and warmup on unthinking autopilot, locates his wife and daughter. Lily’s getting dressed, talking about her big plans for the day. Art kisses the top of her head, turns to his wife. Tashi smiles up at him, beautific. Evil, he thinks fondly.
“Be good,” she says, dry.
He finds Patrick already on the court, smacking balls into the fencing. He lifts an arm in a lazy wave. Art hisses, and promptly launches himself into one of the most violent practices he can remember. Patrick just laughs and dodges, too used to Art’s tells. They warm down in tense, sweaty silence. Art heads back for the house, Patrick jogging after him as he strides, trying to think about a cold shower and nothing else.
Patrick catches him up in the master bedroom, just before he can dive into the bathroom and escape.
“Art. Jesus, slow down.”
Art wheels.
“What.”
Patrick squints at him. “Tashi talked to you.”
Art scowls. He feels exposed, uncovered. He wants, childishly, to deny everything. “Yeah.” he admits instead. “She thinks we should-“ he gestures at the space between them. Patrick’s eyebrows go up, amused and a little mean.
“Should what? Fight? f*ck? Give me something, man.”
Art wants to shove him, and does. Patrick snorts, shoves back harder. Art’s knees hit the back of the bed. Patrick advances, gleeful. Ducks Art’s swing towards his arm and plants his hands squarely on his chest, pushes. Art folds at the knees. Something like anger curls hotly at the back of his throat.
Patrick looms above him, smug. He has, Art thinks uncharitably, the smirk of a used car salesman.
“Don’t tell me what your wife wants, Donaldson. Tell me what you want.”
Art wants something. Wants to stop feeling like he can’t think when Patrick’s here, in his space, mesmerising. Wants Tashi to tell him what to do.
“I don’t want anything.” he says, deflecting uselessly. Patrick laughs at him, teeth flashing. Half mocking, half genuine.
“Nothing?” he says it prettily, the corner of his mouth tucking up into a smirk. Art’s chest is heaving like he’s been running. Patrick looks down at his body then back up, slow. Smiles harder. Art is going to f*cking die. He should stand up. He should walk away. He should peel back time to when he was twelve and f*cking stupid and tell him never to speak to his roommate, never let Patrick Zweig get so deeply under his skin that Art spent thirteen years feeling like half a person without him. He should tell Patrick to f*ck off, should tell him he’s only into it because Tashi’s into it, should tell him that he’s straight. Should tell his wife she was wrong for once in her life.
Patrick towers over him, imperious as a king. Leans forward, slowly, until he has to tilt his face so their noses don’t bump. Like they’re about to kiss. Are they? Art can’t think about it. He can’t think of anything else. He’s intimately, intimately aware of the scant distance between their mouths. They’ve kissed before, kissed recently even, but that was with Tashi’s presence, with her desire fueling it. He could pretend he found it hot because she found it hot. He thinks of her smirk before she left today, the knowing light in her eyes. Be good, she’d said, on the edge of a private laugh, and strolled out like she wasn’t leaving him to the wolves. To the wolf, singular. God.
“Tell me.” Patrick says, perfectly calm. His eyes are closed. He looks like a lover. “Tell me you don’t want this. Since you never f*cking ask for things.”
Art feels like he’s free falling, like he’s sliding out of control. He just has to say no. Opens his mouth, feeling like he’s dreaming. Says “Patrick.” instead, voice low and unsteady and painfully, transparently desperate. Patrick makes a wordless, starving noise and pitches forward and then they’re kissing. Art moans, dizzy, and Patrick licks into his mouth, digs his thumbs into the sides of his jaw, holds his mouth open so he can kiss him as deep as he wants. Art can’t do anything but take it, and he abruptly realises he’s so hard it’s painful. He buries his hands in Patrick’s hair, sobs when Patrick gets his knee onto the mattress, forcing his legs apart, gives him something to grind against.
“Art,” Patrick says, mouth wet against his jaw. “Art, Art, Art.” Art chases him, kisses his chin, his cheek. His ridiculous beard stings. Art wants to crawl inside him. He kisses him again, sick with want. Patrick bites his lower lip hard enough to flavour the kiss coppery with blood, and Art shudders. Shudders harder when Patrick presses his tongue against the wound, slides the taste of his own blood deeper into his mouth. It’s f*cked, it’s f*cked, and then Patrick is pulling back just enough to say “God, Art, so f*cking good for me.” and it’s all too much. Art is coming, sobbing, head lolling back as he gasps through it. Patrick’s pressing messy kisses across his cheek, murmuring something low and delighted, hands curving down over his shoulders as he shakes.
“f*ck.” He says, when he can think in words again. Patrick’s got a sh*t eating grin firmly in place, which he may have earned. Art hasn’t come in his pants for at least a decade. He’s aware that he’s flushing, and sweaty, and he feels far too good to really care. His whole body is fizzing with pleasure. He sways towards Patrick, reaching for his waistband, intent on returning the favour. Patrick catches his hands, laughing, even though the bulge through his shorts looks painful.
“You might regret that,” he says instead, still smiling, “because if you think I’m coming without f*cking you, you’re f*cking crazy.”
Oh. Art blinks up at him, abruptly poleaxed with lust all over again. “Ok.” He says, stupidly. Patrick laughs again, dimples in full force. He leans in for another kiss, sweetly filthy, and then he’s stepping back, stepping out of his shorts and boxers. Oh, f*ck. Art stares. He knew, objectively, that Patrick had a nice dick. It’s just a lot more obvious when it’s right there, hard and dribbling precome. He swallows, and Patrick watches the movement of his throat with dizzying intensity. He pulls his top off in one fluid motion, then kneels easily between Art’s splayed legs. He’s so terribly, unfairly beautiful. He kisses Art’s knee, shockingly sweet, and then tugs one of his feet up so it’s propped on his thigh, and starts unlacing his shoe. Art watches, the feelings knotted in his chest too enormous and complicated to name, as Patrick bends his head to work. He divests him of his socks and trainers with sweet efficiency, then kneels taller and says, soft, “Hips up.”
Art obediently shifts his weight through his hands, lifts his hips enough that Patrick can slide off his shorts and briefs, hissing a little at the sensation. He thinks abruptly of when they were teens, Patrick telling Tashi about him coming everywhere. He’d been alight with embarrassment and laughter and another, more dangerous heat, unwilling to examine it too closely. Patrick stands, staring down at him. Art wonders if he’s thinking about the same thing. Thinks, I wanted you to touch me before I knew what want was. Patrick hooks his fingers under his t-shirt, pulls it up off him with a terrible, tender slowness, knuckles grazing the planes of his stomach, his chest. He leans back down and it’s Art that hauls him into a kiss, desperate. He can feel him smile against his mouth, and then Patrick is pulling away and pressing his hands against his chest, shamelessly feeling him up, then pushing him over backwards with a sudden shove. Art goes, laughter turning to an abrupt whine when Patrick crawls over him and licks a hot line into the crease of his hip. There’s a second where Patrick looks up, gives him a look so blazing that Art feels his dick twitch against his thigh, and then dips his head and licks at the slippery mess of come he’d created. It’s filthy, and he’s not stopping, running his tongue along his spent co*ck, hands suddenly pinning his hips down when he jerks, and Art knots his own hands in the sheets and yells, overstimulated and shaking with pleasure, barely on the right side of too much. Patrick doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied he’s clean, Art twitching helplessly under him and rising back to half-hardness under the attention. He feels exposed, laid bare like a scraped nerve, and he wants to cover himself back up almost as much as he wants Patrick to look at him, ravenous.
“Lube.” Patrick says, finally, a demand. Art scrabbles up the bed so fast he almost brains himself on the headboard, grabs it out of his bedside table. Patrick beams at him, eyes crinkling, catches it easily out of the air when Art tosses it to him. He lies back just for the pleasure of watching Patrick crawl over him, predatory. His mouth tastes of salt, bitter in a way that’s alien and stupidly hot. Patrick kisses like he’s f*cking him already, demanding, claiming his mouth and using it. Art moans at the thought, and Patrick is sliding two fingers into his mouth, pulling back to stare at Art’s mouth around even this much of him. Art laves his tongue over them, figures Patrick wants them as wet as possible for- for what’s coming. Patrick pulls them out with an obscene sound, fingers glistening. Makes a low, approving noise that Art sobs at. Considers him for a moment, then grabs the spare pillow. Art lifts his hips without even thinking about it, like they’re back on the doubles court, reading each other’s minds. Patrick prods him into a position he’s apparently happy with, then pushes one of Art’s legs back up to his chest almost tenderly.
“Hold this,” he says, amused, like he’s not getting Art to hold his own thigh so his body’s tilted open enough to be f*cked. Art swallows, complies. He feels stripped bare, pinned in place. Patrick’s knees are brushing his hips. He’s very close. If he pitched forward a little more, he’d be inside him. His whole body twitches at the thought, unbidden. Patrick grins, opens the lube with a click. Says,
“Have you done this before?” all casual, even as he’s slicking up his own hand. He can’t quite hide the edge in his voice, though, and Art is abruptly tempted to lie and say he has let other men f*ck him, just to see what Patrick does to him.
“Kind of.” He says instead, hopelessly honest. “Tashi has.”
Patrick makes a strangled, starving noise at that. They’d goaded themselves into it when they were newly married, Tashi threatening it and Art going ok, go on then, you want to f*ck me that bad? And she’d brought a strap on just to call his bluff, and suddenly neither of them had been kidding anymore.
“It was hot.” He adds, truthfully. “It made me think about you.”
Patrick’s head snaps up. He’s looking at him like he’s- like he’s starving, suddenly. His eyes are so, so blue. How could Art have ever pretended not to want him? “It made me think about you.” He repeats, then closes his eyes, abruptly embarrassed. “I missed you.”
“f*ck.” Patrick says, sounding unsteady. Art can’t quite bear to look at him, to be seen so entirely. “I wanted this.” he admits, and it feels like owning up to twenty years of history. Twenty years of Patrick Zweig, in his head and his bed and his marriage, inevitable. Patrick says, quiet and soft and a little wry, “You’re gonna be the death of me.” And abruptly there’s one hand wrapping around the meat of his thigh, and Patrick’s sliding a finger into him. Art thunks his head back into the pillow, pants blindly. Patrick’s crooning something low and approving, but all Art can think is finally, finally. “Patrick,” he manages, and he’s straining up enough to be kissed, messily. His lip is bleeding again, and the taste of copper and the wet slide of Patrick’s mouth is combining dizzily with the shock of Patrick f*cking two fingers into him. “More,” Art demands into the damp line of his jaw. “More, please, f*ck.”
Patrick pulls back, far enough to grin. His hair is curling wildly with sweat. Art wants to bite him. “Art Donaldson? Asking for what he wants? A miracle.”
Art growls, but distractedly. Patrick’s sliding his fingers out of him, which feels weird, and stroking his own co*ck, which is so blindingly embarrassingly sexy that Art wants to die a little. The slick sound of it, Patrick’s little hitch of breath on the upstroke is so familiar that Art has to squeeze his eyes shut and bite his tongue so he doesn’t say something insane.
“Ok,” Patrick says, finally, and Art has to open his eyes so he can watch, hypnotised. He has to actively remember to breathe, to relax as Patrick guides his dick to nudge at him. Patrick just looks at him for a second, and Art feels the same perfect rush of connection that made playing doubles with him golden, easy. They breathe in in sync, and then Patrick is pressing into him. Art doesn’t want to do him the service of saying it’s mindblowing, earth-shaking, but it is, it is, and all he can do is gasp blindly for air and take it. Patrick’s saying “f*ck, f*ck,” panting for breath. He stops, half way in, to rub his hands down Art’s thighs, soothing him like he’s some kind of skittish horse, and Art realises abruptly there’s tears sliding down the sides of his face into his hair.
“‘M fine.” He says, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “I’m fine, keep going.” Patrick obliges, if slowly, letting gravity do half the work. He’s bigger than the strap, Art realises. His body feels like it’s being reshaped from the core, repurposed. Art only realises he’s taken all of him when Patrick’s hips bump his thighs. He beckons, wordless, and Patrick pitches forward, Art wrapping his arms and legs round him, holding him in. Patrick is raining kisses over his hair, his forehead, his wet eyes.
“Baby,” he says, soft and a little stunned, and Art sobs and kisses him. He can feel every shift of Patrick’s body, everything, the rasp of his beard and the sweat on his thighs and the way he’s moving inside him, with tiny devastating rolls of his hips. It’s so much, and Art is helpless against it, against the heat starting to curl through him. Patrick mouths messily at his jaw, then the arch of his neck. Art must make some sound, because Patrick pauses and then abruptly bites him there. Art yells, incoherent, and rocks up to meet Patrick’s hips like something in him’s been woken up.
“Huh.” Patrick says, delighted, and does it again. The pain draws an electric line through him, straight from Patrick’s teeth to his dick. Art feels hot, exposed, shivery with pleasure. Patrick hauls himself back and settles between Art’s legs, Art’s shoulders rising to chase him on instinct. Patrick smirks, his eyes electric blue. His hands settle heavily on Art’s hips. “Good?” He asks, eyes crinkling.
Art nods, and Patrick dimples beautifically even as his eyes go wicked. He pulls almost all the way out, and Art knows what’s coming but the breath still goes out of him in a hopeless rush when Patrick starts to f*ck him properly. Art feels lit up, molten with pleasure. It’s so good, and then Patrick manages to angle his hips differently, and he hits something that sparks through him like a current. “Oh,” he says, and manages an internal prayer of thanks that he came earlier, the only reason he’s going to last at all.
Patrick, on the other hand, still hasn’t come at all. He’s flushing deep pink, hips snapping, sweat sticking his curls down. Art abruptly needs to make him come. He tenses a little, experimental, and watches with pleasure as Patrick’s face goes stunned, panting. It’s almost easy, catching onto his rhythm, rocking his hips to meet him. Art can feel his hands tightening, his movements getting more erratic.
“Patrick,” he says, and is promptly possessed by furious, blinding hunger. “In me, f*ck, please, please-“
Patrick shivers all over, mouth falling open. “Art,” He says, almost angry. His head tips forward in a silent cry as he comes, hips stuttering. Art gasps, squirming at the sensation, and then Patrick digs his nails hard into his hips and drags them sharply down, vicious, and he’s gone. Art’s second org*sm hits like a punch, his whole body drawing tight and trembling as it crashes through him in waves.
There’s a long, languid moment where Art just feels, body liquid with pleasure. Patrick is a warm, indistinct weight above him. Art tugs him blindly down.
“Gross,” says Patrick mildly as he lands on Art’s admittedly disgusting chest, and starfishes on top of him. Art snorts, and then he’s properly laughing, helpless.
“It’s in my chest hair, you smooth freak,” Patrick mutters, amusem*nt threading through his voice. He sounds like he always does post-f*ck, lazy and far too pleased, and Art feels a swell of possessive pleasure at the sound of it. Mine, he thinks, smug.
Patrick shifts, stickily, making himself comfortable. He’s a familiar weight in Art’s arms, still. Art wants to say we should have done this sooner and I’m sorry I was scared of wanting you and have you been thinking about this for as long as I have?
He kisses the top of Patrick’s head instead, runs his hands down the smooth expanse of his back. There’s a million things they need to do- shower, eat, train. Instead Art thinks that maybe, for once, he can let the moment linger.
