Chapter Text
The first time Art and Patrick had a serious argument, Art considered it carefully afterwards, after Patrick had stormed out. His thoughts swirled around his head like stomach acid churning with seasickness. They’d been 15 or 16, that last awkward stage of not-so pre pubescent, immaturity.
‘How could I say any of those things? Why would I do that to him?’ It felt so unlike him, like something had possessed him and puppeteered him into doing what he had done. Because Art would never. Art, who when they were twelve used to count Patrick’s freckles while he slept. Art who told Patrick everything. Art who’d do anything for Patrick. To Patrick, who’d do anything for him.
The words he’d said lingered like a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, and from one moment to the next he was seized with regret. A brick of reality set into his chest, slathered in mortar, cemented to his ribs.
When Patrick walked through the door later that night, he caught Art’s expression. Pained, eyebrows pinched, the petal pink curve of his lip jutting out like he could’ve cried any moment. His expression shifted into something smug, something familiar, but before his wit could smooth out the wrinkles in the air between them, Art tackled him in a hug.
“I’m so sorry.”
The words were choked, like they’d barely squeezed past the knot in his throat, coloring them thick with emotion. His arms were curled so tightly around Patrick’s neck he hoped he wasn’t hurting him, but he couldn’t let go.
Patrick curled his arms around Art’s torso and it felt like he could breathe again.
“It’s okay.”
Patrick’s voice was low and soft in his ear and he rubbed a soothing palm across Art’s back.
When they finally parted, it felt wrong. The loss of warmth, Patrick’s body heat having seeped into the fabric of Art’s shirt. It made it feel like the ghost of him was still there.
Patrick smiled, wry and lopsided as he tilted his head at Art.
“I’m not mad.”
Art sighed softly, and Patrick noticed how the lamp just left of them illuminated the moisture sitting dewy on Art’s lower lashes. Glittering, beautiful. Flaxen sunlight, rain on a sunny day.
“I kinda wish you were.”
Art replied, rubbing his face with his hands. His skin had always been outrageously pale, reddening, irritated at the slightest hint of roughness. When he could see Patrick again, past his fingertips and the blurriness, he looked amused.
“Kinky.”
Art shoved him in the shoulder and Patrick’s grin showed teeth. Charming and bright.
“There he is.”
They stood there for a minute, soaking in the silence. The warmth of each other’s presences. Art sighed softly and sat on the edge of the bed, flopping onto his back. Patrick followed suit, throwing himself beside Art on his stomach. His eyes drifted across Art’s frame, supine on the mattress. His shirt had ridden up, a pale sliver of skin peeking out from beneath the blue cotton of his shirt.
His eyes traveled back up, and he caught Art’s blue ones, puppy blue pools staring right back at him.
“Your eyes are green.”
His voice was so soft, eyelashes casting little, spider leg spindly shadows across his cheeks, rosy.
“You just noticed?”
The pink went red and Art smiled sheepishly, looking away.
“They usually look brown.”
Patrick hummed. It was true. He reached over, fingertips ghosting up the side of Art’s shirt.
Blue eyes back on him, green ones impish.
“Patrick..”
“Art.”
Art bit his lip, flesh going white at the pressure. When he released it, the top half of his bottom lip had gone red. Red really was his color. Patrick liked him best when he was flushed. He’d look good at Stanford.
“I really am sorry.”
“I know.”
Patrick leaned his cheek against his hand, propped up by his elbow. It was the summertime. He was beautifully tan, sun kissed, skin gone nebulous with freckles.
“It wasn’t fair for me to say that. You’ll be a great pro tennis player. You don’t need to go to college.”
Patrick’s lips upturned in a smile and he felt goosebumps rise beneath his finger tips. Art’s skin was cold. Always was.
“I’ll keep handing your ass to you once you catch up with me, don’t worry.”
Endless charisma with an ego to match.
“Fuck off.”
Patrick pinched his skin and he hissed, kicking Patrick’s thigh with the leg that was hanging off the edge of the bed.
“Ow.”
Patrick had always been bigger, from their first, staggered growth spurts to now, more spurts to come and still ahead of Art. His hands were no different, warm against his abdomen.
He remembered he used to wonder why dogs would always lay on their backs for belly rubs, what made it so special and heartfelt, the type of thing people saw ‘aw’ to. He remembered asking his grandma.
She’d told him then, that it was their most vulnerable part. Where all of their organs sat, living beneath that skin. Sensitive, dangerous. They only bore that part of themselves to the people they trusted the most.
Now, as Art lay, looking at nothing in particular while Patrick’s thumb stroked up and down beside his navel, he understood the appeal.
I trust you.
The gesture said.
I’d only ever let it be you.