Art Definitely Peed A Little When Tashi Told Him She Was Pregnant

art definitely peed a little when tashi told him she was pregnant

༊*·˚ Working Man

pairing; mechanic!riff lorton x housewife!reader

tags/warnings; infidelity, significant age-gap marriage (older husband x younger reader), emotional neglect, implied marital coercion, sexual themes, references to fertility pressure, implied manipulation and gaslighting, mild period-typical misogyny, mentions of abandonment and child neglect, smoking and alcohol

word count; 4.1k

summary; In late 1950s West Side New York, you’re a young housewife stuck in a marriage built on duty, not desire. When a trip to the garage introduces you to Riff—a grease-stained, sharp-eyed mechanic who sees you for who you really are—it sparks a slow, dangerous unraveling. What begins with a glance becomes a ritual. And then, a reckoning.

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

The screen door creaks behind you as you step onto the sun-warmed porch, the hem of your yellow cotton dress brushing against your knees, a bit too modest for the way the July heat clings to your skin like syrup. The cicadas drone in the trees. Somewhere down the road, a radio blares a tinny tune, cheerful and out of place. You grip your woven basket in both hands like it’s a lifeline.

Your husband, Gene, had handed you two dollars that morning with a grunt and a half-mumbled list: tomatoes, string beans, new mason jar lids. And, as he’d said last night with a dry cough and that same tired glint in his eye—“We’ll try again tonight, alright sweetheart? You ain’t pregnant yet, and the Lord wants us fruitful.”

You hadn’t said much. Just nodded. You never said much around Gene.

The flea market’s only two blocks into town. You know the route by heart. Past the church with its peeling white paint, past the dry cleaners with the gossiping wives out front, past Joe’s Auto Repair, where the air always smells like hot rubber and gasoline.

That’s where you see him.

Leaning against the brick wall just under the “Goodyear Tires” sign, Riff is striking a match, cigarette pressed between his lips. His coveralls are unzipped to the waist, white tank undershirt clinging to sweat-dampened muscles like a second skin. His hair is slicked back, the kind of defiant wave no comb dares tame. Grease stains his hands, his forearms flex as he lights up, and for a moment, he squints toward the sun—and right at you.

You freeze like you’ve stepped barefoot on a snake.

His gaze lingers. Not in that polite, blink-and-gone way most men in town look at you. No, he sees you. His jaw ticks, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and you can’t look away even as your fingers tighten on the basket’s handle.

You walk past without a word, heart pounding too loud in your ears.

It’s three days later when Gene says he needs a belt picked up for the Ford. “Rattlin’ again,” he mutters, spitting into the sink after brushing his teeth. “Go down to Joe’s. I called ahead. They’ll have it.”

You know exactly who they is.

You take your time getting ready. Lipstick, just a little. Your best dress—powder blue, tight at the waist. When Gene leaves for work, you wait a full ten minutes before stepping out, basket empty this time, but your stomach full of nerves.

Joe’s is half-shadowed by the sun when you arrive. You walk through the open garage door and the air changes—warmer, louder, alive with the scent of oil, rust, and man. Tools clink. A radio plays slow blues from somewhere deep in the garage. You don’t see Joe.

But you see him.

He’s under the hood of a car, brow furrowed, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with grit. Riff.

He notices you instantly. Straightens. Wipes his hands on a rag. Doesn’t smile, but recognition flickers behind his eyes.

“You lost, girlie-girl?” he drawls, voice rough as gravel and twice as dangerous.

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“No,” you say, forcing a smile. “My husband called ahead. For a… a fan belt.”

“Right,” he says, tossing the rag onto the workbench without looking away from you. “Gene Miller’s wife. I remember the voice.”

He steps closer, close enough for you to smell the smoke and sweat and something else—raw masculinity. You tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, your throat dry.

“You got a name?”

You hesitate.

“It’s alright,” he says low, a smirk tugging at his lip. “I’ll learn it eventually.”

You don’t remember breathing until you’re walking back out with the belt in your hand, your fingers still tingling from where he brushed them handing it to you.

The affair doesn’t start that day.

But it starts then.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You told yourself you wouldn’t go back.

Gene had the belt. The car ran fine. There was no reason—none—for you to return to that garage. But the days after felt longer. The silence at home heavier. You went through your routines like a ghost, vacuuming rooms already clean, peeling potatoes with slow, mechanical hands, your thoughts drifting to smoke curling from a cigarette and forearms streaked with grease.

You start walking to town more. At first, it’s just to the market. Then the bakery. Then nowhere in particular.

But each time, you find yourself walking past Joe’s.

And sometimes—sometimes—he’s there.

It becomes a quiet ritual. A glance. A flick of his eyes to yours. He never waves, never calls out. But you feel his stare like it’s a hand on your back, pressing. Daring.

Until one morning, two weeks later, you walk past and he says, “You always in such a hurry, darlin’?”

You stop. The heat blooms across your chest like a sin exposed.

He’s sitting on the hood of a cherry-red Impala, legs apart, arms folded, like he owns the street and knows you’re about to fall to your knees on it.

“I—” you start. “I was just walking.”

His lip curls, not quite a smile. “Seems like you’re always just walking. But never stopping.”

You swallow. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The gold band on your finger glints in the sunlight. His eyes flick to it. Then back to your face.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

And just like that, he hops off the car and turns his back to you.

You stand there, stupid and burning.

The next day, you don’t pass by. You walk into the shop.

He’s under another car when you come in, and your heart is hammering hard enough you feel it behind your eyes. You wait until he slides out from under the chassis, rag in one hand, hair damp with sweat.

“Well,” he says, looking you over slowly. “Didn’t expect to see you on purpose.”

You walk in further, past the signs that say “Employees Only,” past the point of decency.

“I was just… in the area,” you lie, voice barely more than a whisper.

He leans against the lift, folds his arms again. His eyes don’t leave yours. “That what you told your husband?”

You flush. Look down.

He chuckles. A rough sound. “Don’t be shy now, doll. You came all this way.”

Something in you snaps. Or frees itself.

You raise your chin. “I wanted to see you.”

That silences him. His gaze sharpens like a blade.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

But he nods toward the back. “Come on. Office is quieter.”

You follow him past stacks of tires and the smell of gasoline, your heels clicking on the concrete. The office is small, hot, and dim. A fan rattles on the desk. There’s a chair, a filing cabinet, and not much else.

He closes the door behind you with a soft click.

The sound is deafening.

“Alright,” he says, stepping closer. “Now what?”

You open your mouth. No words come out.

So he steps even closer, and now your back is to the filing cabinet and there’s nowhere to run.

“You got a name?” he murmurs again, slower this time, like he wants you to hear what it sounds like on his tongue.

You whisper it.

He repeats it, almost reverent.

And then he leans down, just enough so you can feel his breath on your neck.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asks. “Once I touch you, sweetheart, you don’t get to pretend anymore.”

You nod.

Barely.

And then his lips are on yours.

Not gentle. Not soft. But hungry—like he’s been waiting for this moment since that first glance on the street, and he’s done pretending it’s anything but what it is.

His hands cup your face first, then slide down, rough and warm, smearing a faint line of grease across your cheek. He tastes like smoke and something wild. Your fingers curl into the front of his coveralls and pull.

You don’t care about the ring.

You don’t care about Gene.

You only care about this.

This heat.

This escape.

This man.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You’ve never floated home before.

The pavement barely exists beneath your feet. The houses blur past like half-painted scenery, the smell of motor oil clinging to your skin like perfume. Inside, your mouth still tingles. Every part of you feels rewired—sensitive, alive, flushed with the echo of Riff’s mouth and the pressure of his body against yours.

You touch your lips once before stepping through your front door.

Inside, the kitchen smells like stew. You’d left it bubbling low before you went to town—Gene likes it with potatoes and thick carrots, heavy on the salt. You pull your apron on, check the oven, and set the table, your hands moving on instinct while your mind spins somewhere else. Somewhere far from the sterile yellow wallpaper, from Gene’s heavy footsteps and the muted clink of his belt buckle tossed onto the nightstand.

You’re humming.

You never hum.

Gene notices.

He walks in around six, same as always, rubbing his back like he always does, frowning at his shoulder like it’s personally failed him.

But then he looks up.

And he stops.

“Huh,” he grunts, dropping his coat on the chair. “You look… different.”

You tilt your head. Smile a little. “Different how?”

He squints, like you’re a painting someone hung crooked.

“You’re glowin’ or somethin’. Been in the sun too long?”

You shake your head. “Just had a nice walk.”

Gene grumbles approval. “Maybe it helped clear your head. Been uptight lately.”

You serve him stew. He eats in big bites, loud, satisfied. You barely touch yours, too busy sipping the warmth of remembered heat off your tongue. Your thighs press together under the table. You think of grease-streaked fingers pressing into your hips. A voice rasping in your ear.

After dinner, you wash dishes in the sink. You feel Gene’s eyes on your back.

That quiet, calculating look.

Then his voice, low and hopeful. “Why don’t you get ready for bed early tonight?”

You pause, the dish slipping slightly in your hand.

“Sure,” you say.

You brush your hair longer than usual. You don’t bother with the long nightgown—just the slip. You crawl under the sheets, and when Gene joins you, the mattress sags the same way it always does.

But you are different.

He kisses your neck—clumsy, always too damp—and usually you lie still and wait for it to end. You let him climb over you, breathe heavy, grind and grunt like a tired machine hoping it’ll work if it just tries hard enough.

But tonight…

Tonight you close your eyes.

And picture Riff.

You pretend it’s his mouth on your collarbone.

His weight pressing you down.

His voice whispering filth.

You arch without thinking. Your hips move with rhythm. Your mouth falls open and lets out a soft, startled moan.

Gene freezes.

“…You alright?”

You moan again—louder this time—and grip his shoulders. You’re not even looking at him. Your eyes are locked on the dark ceiling, vision painted with the image of Riff’s face between your thighs.

Gene pulls back slightly, looking down at you.

You’ve never looked like this. Not once.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asks, almost suspicious. “You drunk?”

You shake your head, panting. “Don’t stop.”

Your voice is breathy. Needful. Almost pleading.

Gene hesitates.

Then he picks up the pace—clumsy, encouraged—and you turn your head away, biting your knuckles as you come with a soft gasp, thinking only of the man who kissed you like you were made of fire and sin.

When it’s over, Gene collapses next to you, panting.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then: “You ain’t never sounded like that before.”

You don’t answer.

He glances over at you.

You’re smiling.

Just a little.

And that unsettles him more than your moans ever could.

You don’t knock this time.

You walk into the garage like you belong there, the morning sun casting long shadows across the concrete floor. It’s early. Earlier than any decent housewife should be out without a reason. But you didn’t want decent today. You wanted him.

Riff’s got his head under the hood again, sleeves pushed up, tank top stained, a smudge of oil across his jaw. You just stand there for a second, watching him.

He looks like a man who moves. A man who works for what he has. Sweat down his neck. Grease under his nails. No gold watch. No sagging belly, no sagging expectations. Just muscle, movement, and heat.

And he’s your age. Your actual age.

When he hears your footsteps, he straightens—glances over, then grins.

“Well, look who came crawling back.”

You lean against the nearest workbench, crossing your arms under your chest. “You knew I would.”

He chuckles, tossing his wrench onto the tray. “Yeah. But I figured it might take longer.”

You try to act casual. You really do.

But then he’s walking toward you, wiping his hands, and your heart starts doing that desperate little dance again. He gets close enough that the heat rolls off him in waves.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and real.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You got that look again. Same one you had when you walked in the first time. All quiet, like you’re tryin’ not to scream.”

You smile faintly. “I feel better now.”

“Yeah?” He steps in, closer. “Tell me why.”

You don’t hesitate. “Because I kissed someone my age yesterday. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m just a hole for babies and hot dinner.”

He stiffens—just a little. Eyes narrowing.

You go on. “Gene’s twice my age. You know that?”

“I figured.” He crosses his arms, watching you now like a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands. “He treat you like a kid, too?”

“He treats me like a recipe. Do this. Be that. Bake it right and it turns into a son.”

Riff’s jaw ticks.

You look up at him. “You—you don’t look at me like that. You don’t talk down to me. You look at me like I’m… I don’t know. A woman. One you actually want.”

He leans in, nose almost brushing yours. “That’s because you are one.”

You close your eyes for a second, breathing in the scent of him—sweat, metal, Marlboros.

“And you’re the first man I’ve kissed,” you whisper, “who didn’t taste like medicine and stale whiskey.”

That gets him.

He groans low in his throat, hands going to your waist, pulling you to him with that same casual control that makes your knees weak. His lips are on yours again, but this time it’s slower—surer. Like he’s claiming the moment, not just stealing it.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You know how good it feels,” he mutters, “to be wanted by someone who sees you?”

You nod. You know exactly.

You look down at your fingers on his chest. “I dreamed about you last night.”

He smirks. “Yeah? You think about me while you’re lying next to that old bastard?”

You nod again.

“Did he touch you?”

Another nod.

“Did you moan for him?”

You bite your lip.

“Or was it for me?”

Your breath shudders. “For you.”

He laughs once, dark and pleased.

“Good girl.”

And the thing is—it doesn’t feel demeaning. Not like it would coming from Gene.

It feels earned. Shared. Desired.

You don’t feel small. You feel dangerous.

Because for the first time, you’re not just somebody’s wife.

You’re his.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It’s a slow afternoon at the garage.

Clouds hover like a threat overhead, thick and swollen with late-summer rain. The air smells like hot pavement and ozone, and inside the garage, it’s quiet except for the distant hum of the fan.

Riff’s stretched out on the creeper, legs splayed, one boot tapping a lazy rhythm on the concrete. You’re sitting on an overturned milk crate, sipping a soda he pulled from the machine out back, glass bottle sweating in your hand.

Neither of you’s in a rush today.

“You always this quiet?” he asks suddenly, voice drifting from beneath the Buick he’s half-tucked under.

You glance over at him. “Only when I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

You pause. Then answer honestly.

“That I’ve never had a moment like this before. Just… sitting. Talking. Not waiting for someone to need something from me.”

Riff slides out from under the car and props himself on one elbow, looking at you with an expression that’s more curious than flirtatious for once.

“No one ever talks to you?”

“They talk at me. Gene does. The women at church do. But it’s always about dinner or babies or what makes a good wife.” You swirl the soda in the bottle. “Nobody really asks what I like.”

Riff wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it aside. “Alright then. What do you like?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I’m askin’. What you like. Not your husband. Not your preacher. You.”

You bite your lip. “I like walking alone when it’s not too hot. I like when songs on the radio end soft, like they’re afraid to leave. I like the smell of cigarette smoke—but only on you.”

He chuckles, low and surprised. “That last one’s dangerous, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

He sits up, resting his arms on his knees, eyes never leaving you now. “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t… you know. Stuck.”

“All the time.”

“What’s the dream, then?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It used to be getting married. That’s what girls are told to want. A house, a man, a family. But now…” You shake your head. “Now I just want a place where I can sit with someone and not feel like I’m playing a part.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then: “That’s not a dream. That’s just being free.”

You nod slowly. “Maybe that’s the new dream, then.”

Riff leans back against the wall. “You could have that, you know.”

“I could have it with you?”

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t look away either.

“I think you already do.”

You let the silence settle between you, not heavy—just full. Full of what hasn’t been said yet. What might never be.

But for now, it’s enough.

You sip your soda and let him work, and he lets you sit close, and for the first time in what feels like years, you don’t feel like you’re in someone else’s story.

You feel like you’ve started your own.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It rains harder than it has all summer.

Thick drops pound the roof of the garage, echoing like war drums, rattling the roll-up door. The sky is dark, wind slashing through the trees out back. The kind of storm that keeps everyone home. Everyone but you.

You showed up soaked to the knees, breathless from running the last few blocks, cardigan clinging to your shoulders. You didn’t even knock. You just walked in, giggling like the place belonged to you now.

Riff didn’t say a word—just grabbed a faded shop towel and started drying your arms, slow and careful, like you were something breakable. He came close. His cigarette was barely hanging off his lips and his brows were furrowed while he mumbled something about how you’re going to get sick. Your head tilted to watch his face with a soft smile before you playfully started pressing small kisses around his face, making him break into a reluctant grin.

Now you’re both sitting in the garage office, the cot folded down, the air heavy with petrichor and engine oil. You’ve got a blanket wrapped around you, hair still damp, and he’s sitting at the edge of the cot, nursing a cigarette between two fingers.

Neither of you’s in a rush to speak.

Eventually, you do.

“You ever think about leaving this place?” you ask, voice soft under the noise of the storm.

Riff exhales smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling.

“All the time.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

He glances over at you, one brow raised. “Maybe for the same reason you haven’t.”

You look away.

“Where would you go?” you ask instead.

“Out west,” he says without hesitation. “Arizona. Maybe New Mexico. Somewhere hot and dry where the air don’t stick to your skin. I’d open my own shop. One I could name after something that’s mine.”

You smile a little. “What would you call it?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe after a girl.”

You go still.

He looks over again, something warmer in his eyes now.

“Not sayin’ who. Just… maybe.”

The rain softens outside, just a little, turning to that gentler rhythm you could fall asleep to if you let yourself.

“You ever miss your family?” you ask after a pause.

He goes quiet at that.

“I don’t know if you can miss what never really felt like yours,” he says eventually. “Old man drank himself into a pine box before I hit ten. Ma packed up and left a year later. I learned early not to expect anyone to stay.”

You reach over and take the cigarette from his fingers, press it to your lips. It’s still warm. Tastes like him. You hand it back.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“For now,” he replies.

There’s no accusation in it. No bitterness. Just truth.

You scoot closer. Press your side against his. The blanket shifts with you, and he lets you lean into him, lets you rest your head on his shoulder like you belong there.

“You know the worst part?” you whisper.

“What?”

“I never used to think I deserved more than what I had. Not until you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“You always deserved more. You just needed someone to remind you how to want it.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, you hold that warmth like a secret between your ribs.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t have to.

He just puts his arm around your shoulder, keeps you close, and for once, neither of you needs anything else.

Not yet.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The next time you see Riff, the sky is overcast, thick with the smell of rain and exhaust.

You don’t bring a list. You don’t need a reason.

He knows that now.

You step into the garage and he doesn’t ask why. He just looks up from under the hood of a pickup and wipes his hands, like he’s been waiting for you since the moment you walked away last time.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” you say softly.

“That’s enough.”

It is.

You’re in the back of the shop again, this time not quite naked, but close enough—his hands up your skirt, your mouth on his throat, the ache in you too loud to ignore. Every breath is a betrayal, and yet it’s the most honest thing you’ve done in years.

When it’s over, you lie there in the quiet, legs tangled in his, your head on his shoulder. The fan hums. The radio crackles something low and moody from the next room.

“I thought about leaving,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just runs a hand through your hair, fingers slow and thoughtful.

“Thought about what I’d pack. Where we’d go.”

Still nothing.

Then finally—carefully—he says, “But you didn’t.”

You shake your head against his chest. “Not yet.”

He exhales through his nose. A short, humorless sound.

“Still waiting for the right moment?” he asks.

“I don’t know if there is a right moment.”

He shifts beneath you, not angry, just aware—that edge creeping back into his voice.

“Or maybe you’re just waitin’ for someone to decide for you.”

That stings.

Because he might be right.

But you sit up slowly, smoothing your dress, and look at him with eyes that have seen two lives now—the one you were assigned, and the one he lets you steal piece by piece.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You already don’t have me,” he says, soft but sharp. “Not really.”

You lean down, kiss him slow—less like a goodbye, more like a promise.

“I have this,” you murmur. “And I’m not done with it.”

He grabs your wrist before you pull away. Not to stop you. Just to feel you. Like he doesn’t trust you’ll come back, even though you always do.

“You come when you need to,” he says. “But don’t expect me to wait forever.”

You nod. “I know.”

You slip out the door, heart tight in your throat, and walk home under the drizzle with your stockings damp and your lips tingling from his kiss.

Gene is in the living room, snoring in his chair.

You step over his feet, hang your coat like nothing happened, and start peeling potatoes for dinner.

Outside, thunder rumbles softly in the distance.

Inside, your pulse still hasn’t slowed.

There’s no decision yet.

Just want.

And the quiet, steady promise that you’ll find your way back to Riff again.

Because you always do.

A HELPING HAND

summary: it's the last night at mark rebelatto's tennis academy for art and patrick. the last night of being bunkmates, the last night of staying up to talk about tennis, the last night before art is off to stanford and patrick goes on tour. when art falls asleep, patrick usually jerks off like any regular guy with needs. it's not weird of course. he taught art how to jerk off in this very room afterall. but tonight is different. patrick would already be finishing into a sock if it weren't for arts quiet little sobs.

pairing: patrick zweig x art donaldson

content warning: 18+ mdni mlm mutual masturbation mutual handjob internalized homophobia?

word count: 2.4k

authors note: ahh this is my first fic! i was inspired by a post i saw a week or two ago but i can't remember what the @ was. the concept stuck with me and i just had to write something. i hope it's enjoyable... if it is i'll make a part two. happy reading!!

taglist: @fwaist @pittsick @cowboyfaists @manipulatemedonaldson @glassmermaids @zionna @femme-lusts

for the last hour, patricks hand has progessively slid lower and lower until it's found purchase at the waistband of his boxers. he'll occasionaly dip his fingers beneath it out of boredom, but he can't find it in him to go any further. not when the room is practically calling out to him. each corner holds a different memory. the walls, which have heard all of the late the night conversations between him and art. the trophies, that they've both worked their asses off for. the beds, where patrick taught art how to jerk off when they were younger. where they talked about kat zimmerman. where they came at the same time. it was underlined with a sensuality both of them would take to the grave. he can't believe it but he might miss the place. not the constant pressure nor his judgy peers. just the memories. all of which are with art.

speaking of, patrick looks across the room in an attempt to make out arts figure in the dark. his eyes have a hard time adjusting and he can only hope he's asleep. he opens his mouth to check but thinks better of it and looks up at the ceiling. his fingers slip under the waistband of his boxers once more, sliding more downwards than before. he's about to wrap a hand around his growing hardness when he hears something. he yanks his hand back and sits up slightly, eyes searching the darkness.

if patrick strains his ears enough he can hear the muffled cries coming from the direction of arts bed. he sits up completely and plants his feet on the floor, causing it to creak under the new weight. patrick curses inwardly to himself when it goes quiet. "art? are you uh.. are you awake?" he whispers loudly in hopes that his best friend won't ignore him.

"...yeah, sorry if i woke you up." art whispers back after a beat. patrick almost laughs at how pathetic he sounds. like he always does. but the sniffle that follows is enough to have him crossing the room and sitting down on arts bed.

the silence that follows is uncomfortable and long. uncomfortably long, if you will. patrick has never been good at comfort. he can't even think of an instance where he's actually comforted someone. he tends to just make a joke in hopes of lightening the mood. that or he aborts the scene before tears fall. too late now. "what's wrong?" the words don't even sound like his own and it takes him by surprise. it's something he's never asked before in his life. apparently it surprises art even more because he sits up and gives him a curious look. "why do you care? it doesn't even matter." patrick scoffs at that. "it does matter." his tone is uncharacteristically soft. "but you're also keeping me up, so either talk to me or spare me the trouble." he redeems himself before art has more questions that he can't answer. why does it even matter?

another beat. "i'm just— i don't know— i'm sad, i guess. about leaving. we grew up here and now we're moving on. leaving it in the past." he shrugs and looks down at his lap like a kicked puppy. patrick only sighs because art's right. he himself was reminiscing for the last hour, barely even able to get hard because of the memories plaguing him. "i get it, this place means a lot to us. but you got accepted into stanford and i'm going on tour. we're going further than we ever dreamed of. we'll finally have more to our names than this shitty academy." he laughs and ruffles arts curls, settling for the joking tactic. "yeah.. you're right." his tear stained eyes finally meet patricks and he offers a sad smile. patrick offers one back and it's far different than his customary smirk or grin.

but it was gone as quick as it came. "are we done here? 'cause you kinda ruined my me time, if you catch my drift." patrick makes a jerking off gesture with his hand, as if his words weren't comprehendable alone. "right..." arts smile falters when he notices the tent in patricks boxers. was that there the whole time?

he should be disgusted if it was. here he is, crying and in need of comfort. maybe even a lullaby. all the while his best friend is harboring a boner and can't even offer him a hug. but if the way his own cock is filling out says anything about what he's feeling, it's definitely not disgust.

and of course patrick catches on immediately, eyes watching the quickening growth in arts boxers. it's only then that he's reminded of his own which he left aching and wanting. their attention shifts from their dicks to each other once again. it's even quieter than before. so quiet that the gears in patricks mind can almost be heard working overtime.

eventually, he voices what he was thinking so hard about. "i could help you take your mind off of things if you want—" art shakes his head vigorously as if he'd rather die. "no, i don't want." patrick scoffs "really? well, i didn't know you were the type to get a random boner." he nods to the tent in arts boxers that now matches his own. "i'm not— i don't— it's a natural reaction—" art stammers, a flush already rising to his cheeks. "a natural reaction to what? my dick?" patrick grins, fully aware he has him cornered. all art can do is grab one of his pillows and plant it firmly over his lap, avoiding patricks gaze yet again.

there's that gleam in patricks eye. the one that shines when he's planning something regrettable, which is often. "come on, art." patrick drawls and leisurely crawls over him. he rips the pillow from his grip and sets it off to the side. "do you remember when i taught you how to jerk off? we did it together, right here in this room. you on this bed, a whimpering mess." he smiles down at art, dimples making him look slightly less devilish. "it's our last night here. you really wanna spend it sulking? let's just.. give each other a hand." his fingers trail down arts bare torso before he finds and palms his buldge, relishing in the whine it pulls from him. "for old times sake." he adds, as if that will make it any better. "f—for old times sake?" art asks hesitantly, unsure how he's even able to form words at this point. "yeah, for old times sake." patrick echoes and his palm presses down harder.

when art bucks his hips up instead of telling him off, patrick takes it as a yes and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of arts boxers. he tugs them down slowly as if to prolong his discomfort. when they're finally off, he tosses them into the void and his own follow suit. patrick props one hand beside arts head for support as the other finds his hip. art is staring between them, to which patrick follows his line of sight. their cocks are rock solid and straining against their stomachs, arts leaking pre-cum already. patrick removes his hand from its place on arts hip and wraps it around his base, avoiding arts at all costs. you see, palming and actually touching are totally different things. to the two of them at least.

he strokes himself once. twice. by the third, art is grabbing his own and mimicking patricks motions. they set a pace with their hands in sync whether it's purposeful or not. the previous silence of the night is now filled with ragged breathing and the occasional moan. patrick focuses his eyes on the headboard while art shuts his every now and then. they never make eye contact. it's an unspoken rule. one that would be way weird if broken. although, patrick does take the chances when arts eyes are closed to admire him. he watches the slight flutter of his eyelids, or how his eyebrows scrunch with pleasure, but mainly the way his lips part to let out sounds that go straight to patricks gut.

he doesn't even realize that his hand is leaving his cock and wrapping around arts until it's too late. arts eyes fly open and his hand stills. he wants to pull his hand away and ask him what he's doing. but they're making eye contact—dammit they're making eye contact—and all rational thoughts flee his mind. especially when patrick slowly moves their hands, guiding arts strokes. he's not even touching him and yet it's enough to make him lose it. "please—" art chokes out, staring into patricks eyes pleadingly. "please what?" it almost comes out tauntingly but it's far from it. "let's just... help each other out, like you said." the words leave a weird taste in arts mouth but he ignores it. patrick stops the movement of their hands and stares at art in contemplation. his eyes flick from arts to his lips then back. "alright. no kissing though, i'm not gay or anything." patricks words are laced with underlying meaning but they're both too lost in the moment to acknowledge it. arts insistent head nodding speaks for itself.

arts hand slips out from under patricks, allowing him to truly grip his cock. the moans they both let out is an obscene combination. patrick should've have stopped it from going this far. he knew that. but when arts hand wraps around his own ache he can't find any reason why he would.

they resume the pace of earlier but it quickly turns frenzied. hands pump, thumbs rub tips, free hands grab balls. their noses either drag across the others cheek or smush against one another. they share the same breath but they never kiss and they maintain their eye contact rule (with the exception of earlier.)

it isn't long before they're both thrusting into each others fists. art mostly, the needy thing. "fuck yeah— just like that." patrick moans into arts ear, so very tempted to pull the lobe into his mouth and suck on it. "like this?" arts tone is almost innocent even as he flicks his wrist. "mmmh exactly." patricks movements get sloppier, so do arts. the heat between them is boiling but the feeling is so good it feels like they're in heaven and hell all at once.

their climaxes rise at the same time, art working through his faster. "please pat— oh shit— patrick i'm gonna—" his words are cut off by a moan that sounds like it was extorted straight from his soul. patricks name on arts lips is enough to have his orgasm following right after. "yes— just like that art- fuuuuck-" ropes of white come shoot out from their swollen tips, crossing paths before landing on each others stomachs.

patrick collapses onto his back next to art, both boys covered in the others release and gasping for air. they don't find it in themselves to look at each other, at the damage they've done. they just stare at the ceiling and relish in the left over pleasure.

patrick is the first one to make a move, getting up and looking around for his boxers. art sits up to watch him. definitely not to stare at his naked form. once he finds them, patrick pulls them on and tosses arts to him. he takes a moment to let what they just did sink in. he looks over art from head to toe as he tugs his boxers on himself. his eyes linger a little too long on the mess on arts stomach. his mess on arts stomach. arts mess on his stomach. a strange feeling of pride swells in his chest and it makes him feel sick. he knows art must feel just as sick, if not more. it's not like patrick has never thought about this before. he has. more times than he'd like to admit. it's that he knows art hasn't and never will. so he deems it best to avoid it.

he walks into their bathroom and comes back with two cloths. he carelessly throws one to art and walks back to his side of the room to clean himself off in the mirror. however, he keeps an eye on art in the reflection. he watches as he quickly wipes off the liquid as if it was toxic waste. patrick does it himself, and they discard them in their trash bins.

art fixes his pillows and pulls the sheets over him whilst patrick settles himself back in his own bed. they don't exchange looks or even a goodnight. they simply turn over and fall asleep.

—

in the morning, patrick and art are up at their typical time. aka the ass crack of dawn. they're both tired, like usual, but more so from their late night activities. they each mutter a goodmorning and make small talk here and there while they get ready for the day. "how'd you sleep?" "good, you?" "pretty good." "nice."

when the time comes for packing, patrick almost expects to see art crying as he brings in empty boxes. but he's not. his demeanor is entirely different than how it was last night. before... everything.

"want some help?" patrick offers when art begins to stuff his respective boxes. "sure, if you don't mind." they spend an hour packing all of arts stuff, nice and neat, and another hour packing patricks stuff, unorganized and an overall mess.

by the end of it the room looks empty, but they both know it's not. it's full. full of memories and shared moments. full of secrets that will never leave. full of whatever happened between them last night.

patrick is the one to break the heavy silence. "wanna play a match later? i'll even buy us some beer after." art switches his focus, eyes locking with patricks (now that the rule isn't in place) and grins. "only if you get the good stuff."

"when have I ever not gotten the good stuff?" from the smiles on both of their faces, you wouldn't think that they were leaving a big chunk of their lives behind. you also wouldn't think that they jerked each other off the night prior.

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