Chapter Text
“We’ll answer on the count of three. One...two...three! Yes.”
“No,” Pran says at the same time.
Pat lets out a sigh of relief when he hears it. He’s so glad Pran doesn’t like Ink, too. They aren’t friends... yet? Or, again? It’s confusing. They aren’t there yet, but Pran had let him in, given him a place to sleep. That counts for something, Pat’s sure of it. They were on their way to being friends at least, and Pat really doesn’t want to compete with Pran about this too.
He loves competing with Pran about small things, but big things like love would make being friends so much harder. He sits up and puts his chin on the mattress. Pran is still looking up at the ceiling. He doesn’t look over. Pat watches as his throat moves and almost misses the words.
“She’s not really my type.”
He perks up at that, disbelieving. He hadn’t realized Pran had a type. Maybe if Pat could find Pran someone to date, things would smooth out between them. He leans further over the bed, focusing intently on Pran’s face. “Really? What is your type?”
There’s a long pause. “Men.”
Huh. Okay. That makes sense. It takes a second before it hits him. This is great! Now they definitely won’t have to compete in the romance department. He smiles over at Pran, glad that he told him. He’s about to ask what type of guys Pran likes—maybe he can set him up with one of Pat’s friends! That would be awesome, they could bridge the gap between the two faculties that way—but then Pran talks over him.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Pat. Have you confessed to her yet?” Pran’s still not looking at him, brushing his hair back from his face and then looking over at the door.
“Not yet. Do you think she likes me?” Pat asks, genuinely wanting to hear Pran’s answer. He had seen them talking on the bleachers earlier, so maybe Pran has some insider information. Pran is also very observant; Pat always catches Pran looking at him, and to look at things with that kind of intensity had to mean Pran saw everything. And, he likes men, so maybe he can tell Pat if he’s lacking in an area that would make him appealing. Maybe he should shower more, like Pran always said.
“I don’t know, may-”
“What if I’m not a good kisser?” Pat has the thought all of a sudden. What if he confesses to Ink and then they kiss and she doesn’t like him? “Have you kissed anyone, Pran?”
“I have.”
Pat stares at him. It isn’t the answer he had expected. If the light in the room hadn’t been so dim, Pat would’ve sworn that Pran’s face flushed at the question. Pran had beaten him to a first kiss. He can’t believe it.
“It was never with anyone serious, though,” Pran almost whispers, finally turning to look at Pat. His eyes look inky black in the dark room and they’re staring intently at him. A lock of his hair is falling in his eyes. Pat wants to push it out of the way.
He’s struck by another brilliant idea. “That’s perfect, Pran! I just need to practice with someone before I date Ink! What do you think?”
Pran’s furrowed brow was adorable. “What do I think about what? Finding someone to practice kissing with? I think it’s a terri—”
He’s too amped up by this idea to quit. “Not just kissing! Everything. Dating, small talk, kissing, other...stuff. You know. But let's start with kissing!” He clambers up onto the bed, kneeling on the duvet so Pran can’t get away. “Can I kiss you?”
Pran’s mouth falls open and his eyes dart over Pat’s face, as if he can’t understand what Pat is asking for. It’s not that complicated. This will be fun for both of them. Pran’s chin tips forward ever so slightly and he takes that as the go-ahead. He swoops down and plants his lips against Pran’s. This first one was supposed to be more like a joke, the sealing of a deal, but Pran’s lips are soft against his and he lingers there, tipping his head to one side so they fit better. One of his hands comes up almost automatically to the side of Pran’s face and their mouths slide together for several long seconds.
Slowly, he pulls away and leans his forehead against Pran’s.
“So how was it? Was I good?” He can feel Pran’s breath on his cheek and smell the clean laundry scent of him. He kind of wants to lean his head down into Pran’s neck and smell him a bit more—that’s where it seems to be coming from. Pran is looking up at Pat, his eyes now bright, catching the warm lamplight, and Pat feels a swoop in his stomach. “Would it scare Ink away?”
He chuckles a little to hide how odd he’s feeling, but he can actually see as the light leaves Pran’s eyes. Oh no, was he that bad of a kisser?
Pran lets out a shaky breath.
“Get off me. Get off,” he says as he frees an arm from under the blanket and pushes at Pat’s shoulder. Pat doesn’t budge and he looks down at Pran expectantly, still waiting for an answer. “Yeah, it was good, okay? She...she won’t be disappointed.” He’s pushing really hard now, so Pat relents.
“We should do this,” Pat says with a smile as he rolls off Pran to the side.
“Do what?” Pran asks carefully. “You just said you like Ink.” He places his large hand over Pat’s whole face and pushes it back to get even more space.
“Yeah, but that felt nice too! We can be friends with benefits! Until I start dating Ink. You don’t like anyone right now, right? And you like guys! This is perfect. Won’t it be nice to have someone to make out with sometimes?”
“We’re not friends, Pat,” he says softly, eyes darting off to the corner of the room.
“Ok fine. Rivals with benefits, then.”
Pran runs his hand through his own hair, tipping his head back on the pillow, but Pat knows that means he’s about to relent.
“C’moooon it’s a good idea!”
**
Pat is smiling down at him like this is the best idea in the world. Pran can’t take his eyes off him. It’s an absolutely terrible idea, Pran knows. Earlier, Ink had said that she didn’t like Pat, but he knows that with enough time and focused charm, Pat could get anyone to like him.
Pran also knows he’s never going to get a chance like this again. To be with Pat. It’s not like he can say no. He doesn’t really even want to say no. Pat’s breath had been shaky just now. Pran had done that. He wants to do that again. He wants to affect him, make him moan, pin him down and make him beg. He wants to hold hands in a dark movie theater even though the movie isn’t scary. He wants to lay reading together in a park on a sunny day. He wants Pat to come to dinner at his parent’s house. He wants Pat to brush his hair out of his eyes and ask about his day.
He wants Pat to want him back. But he can’t have so many of the things he wants, so he’ll take what he can get.
“Fine.”
This time, when Pat comes clambering down on top of him, enthusiastic mouth crashing against his, he’s ready. He’d tossed the blanket off and his legs fall open to receive Pat between them. That always happens with Pat. No matter how hard Pran tries to shut him out, he always finds his way in. He sits in a hallway until Pran opens the door, he seeps in around the edges of memories Pran tries to block out, he climbs in windows, he flows between the cracks in the carefully constructed walls Pran has spent so long building. Could he actually do this? Could he handle letting Pat in, on purpose—no longer at the edges, but right in the center?
His body replies for him as he arches up against the solid weight above him. It feels good having Pat on top of him. Just like he’d always dreamed it would. He sucks Pat’s bottom lip into his mouth and scrapes his teeth along it, smiling as it elicits a moan. Pat’s hips grind down into his, but it lacks intent. They’re both tired, and it’s good—it’s incredible—this is exactly what he’d wanted, but it still feels empty. He also can’t stop. He wants it too much.
Pran runs a hand up his strong, thick bicep, over a shoulder. He wants to continue down his back to his ass, feeling all the corded muscles below his fingertips, but he doesn’t dare. Their movements turn languid, and it's nice to just be here, like this, with him. He lets himself enjoy what he can, trying to memorize the sounds of Pat enjoying himself on top of him, the feeling of his hair in his hands, the weight of his body pressing him into the mattress. He’s not sure if he’ll get to do this again.
Eventually, Pat’s breathing slows, and Pran gently pushes him off so he can take care of himself in the bathroom. It doesn’t take long, and he can’t look himself in the mirror as he washes his hands. When he climbs back into bed, Pat is laying on his side and his eyes blink open slowly. He probably hadn’t even realized Pran had gone, but when he sees him, he smiles wide. Fuck.
“So we’re doing this, then?”
“I’ll think about it,” he says, flopping onto his back, rolling away from the Cheshire grin, and yanking his duvet over him.
It doesn’t matter if Pran lets Pat in or not. He’s already there. He always has been.
He might as well get something out of it this time.
**
Pran lays awake for a long time after Pat’s breath evens out and occasionally looks over at the rhythmic rise and fall of his back through Pran’s shirt. He’d gotten hot almost immediately after falling asleep and thrown the blanket off him, and the ridges of his shoulder blades are visible through the thin material. He wants to reach out and trace them, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed. Eventually, he falls into a fitful sleep, worrying at the worn out band of his old watch.
The smiley posters in my room surrounded me; mom had put them up to remind me to smile more. There was a tap at the window. My heart almost leapt out of my chest when Pat jumped into the room—for a couple of reasons. His hand smelled like sweat where it covered my mouth, but I wouldn’t have minded if it had stayed there a little longer.
“What are you doing?” Get out of my room, leave me alone, stay.
“I’m returning something of yours. We’re even now.”
He was leaving. Wait. Come back. “We’re not. It’s old and worn out. I was going to throw it away.”
“You’re lying.”
“I don’t care if you believe it or not. But you owe me one.”
“Fine! Next time when you need help, just let me know.”
Perfect. I could already think of a hundred different things I could make him do. He really was leaving now. I could see the sweat on the back of his neck. He couldn’t see it, but I smiled.
“But don’t talk to me in front of people. They might think we’re buddies.”
Smile gone, I watched him hop back out into the humid night. Of course he was right. We weren’t friends—it wasn’t allowed. And he wouldn’t want to be anyways, even if it was. I wasn’t ever going to be the type of person he wanted talking to him in front of people. I wasn’t like the other kids.
When I laid back into bed, the posters stared down at me, taunting. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see them anymore. They didn’t work very well.
*
The back of my legs stuck to the warm plastic chair, the desk dug into my stomach as I leaned over it. I couldn’t understand this problem. I hadn’t understood the previous one, either, but this one didn’t have an answer in the back of the book. Why were there letters in this math problem?
I heard him whistling in the hall before I saw him in the doorway and I tried to keep my back turned, but he came right over.
“Pran! Do you need help? You just have to move this number to the other side and then you can divide!” His finger left a sweat stain on my paper.
I finished the problem and looked up. He was smiling at me—I think I was smiling back.
“Great! This can count as the favor I owed you! I helped you, didn’t I?”
I rolled my eyes at him, but yeah, maybe I should let him off the hook, he had just helped me.
“Pat?” His gang of friends stared stupidly from the door. Since when did they move so quietly?
Pat looked at them and then back at me. I waited.
“I can’t believe you couldn’t get this. It’s so easy! I’ll definitely beat your score on the quiz tomorrow!”
The laughter from the door sounded like hyenas. My face was hot. I wanted to punch the smug smile right off of his. He turned to go, but I caught his wrist before he did. “It doesn’t. Do you hear me? It doesn’t count.” My voice was low and it shook with fury and something else.
His mouth dropped open in surprise. Good. I tossed his hand away and looked back down at my paper.
I didn’t wipe at my eyes until I couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore. I would never use that favor. He would owe me forever.
Pran jerks awake, face wet and heart pounding. Soon, sound rushes back in and Pat’s gentle snores filter through. It takes him a couple of seconds to realize that they’re coming from on top of him. Pat has clung to him in his sleep, one arm thrown over his chest, one leg thrown over his, and now he’s sweating through his shirt. He detangles his trapped arm and scrubs at his face with both hands. He can’t do this. Pushing gently—but not that gently—at Pat to detach himself, he slides to the mat on the floor where Pat was supposed to be sleeping. How had things gone this badly?
Pat whines and reaches for Pran’s now-empty pillow, clutching it to his chest.
“Oh no you don’t,” Pran mutters, pulling it out from his embrace and propping it up against the nightstand behind him. A low grumble comes from the bed and Pat flips onto his other side, almost pouting in his sleep.
“Fuck,” he whispers into the dark room, running his hands through his hair and laying down, pulling the blanket with him onto the floor until Pat curls into a ball on the bed. “Fuck.”
It sounds like resignation even to him.
***
Pran slides the sausages off the spatula and looks down at the overfull plate. He’s probably overdone it. But he assumes Pat eats a big breakfast, and he doesn’t really know what he’d want. Plucking his own two pieces of toast out of the toaster, he squirts exactly the right amount of condensed milk on them and uses a knife to spread it to the very edges in every direction. Perfect.
When he turns back from putting the tube away, one of the pieces is missing and he looks up slowly, right into the grinning, chewing, face of his childhood rival. His hair is all mussed and he has a little condensed milk on his upper lip and his shirt—Pran’s shirt—is all wrinkled.
He’s the most beautiful thing Pran has ever seen.
“Hey!” He reaches out to grab at the toast and Pat dodges, taking another huge bite. Leaning even further over the counter, he’s finally able to steal it back, but only about half of the piece is left. He scowls.
Pat beams. “So. Did you think about it?” He asks around a mouthful of food.
Normally, he’d find that so disgusting—he scolds Wai for talking with his mouth full all the time—but he just finds it endearing when it’s Pat. He can never know. “If we’re going to do this, we need our friends to get along. We can’t do this if they’re still at each other's throats all the time.”
Pat’s face shifts, and Pran doesn’t understand what it means. He looks a little constipated. “I’m not sure we should tell them we’re doing this.”
“...don’t talk to me in front of people. They might think we’re buddies.”
Ah.
**
Pat has said something wrong, but he’s not sure what. Pran’s face suddenly went from dimpled and teasing to stony and grave. He turns his back, and Pat can see how his shoulders have climbed practically to his ears. He doesn’t even feel like stealing another piece of the toast right in front of him. He shrugs, even though Pran can’t see him. They can tell their friends, he supposes, but when Pran had mentioned their friends, he’d a flash of the two of them up on that stage in high school, the last time they had spent extra time together. And then Pran had gotten sent away. That can’t happen again.
He thinks for a second. He also doesn’t want it getting back to Ink, because she might not really understand. Ink likes Pran a lot and Pat doesn’t want her thinking he’s taken and off limits. That goes against the whole point of this thing they’re doing. They’ll just have to make it clear to their friends that this has to stay a secret. He’s about to say that when Pran finally turns back to him.
“Right, of course not. Our friends obviously can’t know about...this. I just meant that we can’t keep getting in trouble with the school, so you need to get your unruly friends in line.”
His face is no longer pinched and worried, and he’s almost back to the teasing tone from before, although the dimple is gone. Pat relaxes, relieved. Of course Pran gets it. They had been secret friends, and now they could be secret friends with benefits.
“Hey! You get your friends in line!” He says loudly but with no heat.
“Oh no no no, we tried that before, and my friend apologized like a civilized human being, unlike that animal you call a friend!” Pran yells back, rising to the bait exactly as Pat had hoped for.
“Korn was just standing up for what he believed in!”
“Yeah, well, what he believes in is stupid. Just get him to the cafeteria at noon.” Pran stomps past him into the bedroom and slams the door, still muttering.
Pat grins as he picks up the final piece of excellently coated toast and eats the whole thing in three bites. Perfect.
***
“So, how did Pran get you here?” Korn asks, taking a huge bite of a taco in some kind of cone and chewing obnoxiously. Little pieces of meat fall out of the corner of his mouth into his lap.
Pran rolls his eyes and looks over at Pat, who’s eating his cone only slightly more civilly. Wai glares at Korn and sips from his soda primly before replying, “He had an itemized list about why this would be necessary in the long run and it made sense.” Pausing, he then asks suspiciously, “Why? How did Pat get you here?”
Korn raises the cone up in the air and dips his head toward it. “And, he said he’d buy me ice cream after, if I stayed the whole time. AH! That’s it! We should eat lunch together each day! Maybe Khun Stick-up-his-ass over here will be more pleasant if he’s being fed, and I know I am.”
“I’m not sure I could eat anything while looking at your face,” Wai grinds out from behind his teeth, turning to Pran, eyes begging him not to agree.
Pran considers, “You know what, Korn? That’s actually not a bad idea.” Pran ignores Wai’s groan. “We’d get used to each other, but still have a time limit on the interaction each day. And there’s nothing inherently competitive about lunch that would make this worse, like in rugby or anything. Ok, let's do it.” This time, Pran tries (and fails) to ignore Pat’s smug look. He’s not as easy to ignore as Wai is. “Now shake on it.”
The objections are instantaneous from both sides of the table.
“What?! No! You didn’t say—”
“That was not on the lis—”
Pran holds up his hand, but Wai is the only one who quiets at it.
“I don’t see why the two of us have to do this when the two of you—” Korn gestures between Pat and Pran, “—obviously hate each other, too.”
Pat freezes mid-bite. “We don’t—”
“But we know how to conceal our hatred and be civil. Like adults. Now shake,” Pran demands.
Wai begrudgingly holds out his hand and Korn takes it. Dismissing the sound of crunching bones, Pran makes triumphant eye contact with Pat over their hands, startling a bit at the intensity he sees there, no triumph at all. Pat looks...sad? Maybe angry? Why? Their friends are getting along! Their plan is working!
Pat tries to pull him aside as they’re all getting up to go, but Wai is whining about his hand and Korn is gloating about something, and it’s best to just go their separate ways with the tenuous peace they just forged still intact. He shakes off the hand and glares over his shoulder, hoping Pat will get the message. They can deal with whatever his problem is later.
***
But later never comes. Pat had texted to say they should ‘hang out and practice later’ and Pran had been pacing since then. Last night had just kind of happened, it hadn’t been planned, but now that there is a plan, he needs an actual plan. He needs rules. He doesn’t know how to act.
He’d put on a crisp light blue button down earlier, but the collar is bothering him, and he feels stupid anyway. This was Pat. The same Pat who, just hours earlier, had wiped taco sauce on his own shirt. He rips it off and selects one of his favorite striped shirts instead. He feels marginally better as soon as it drops over his chest. It’s soft and comfortable and feels like himself. It’s not like they’re dating; he doesn’t have to look nice, that’s kind of the whole point. He swallows around his disappointment—the blue shirt does look good on him, but it’s not like Pat would notice.
Just then, there’s a knock, and he hurries to the door only to pause and take a deep breath before opening it. As he expected, Pat looks exactly like he had earlier, still in his uniform shirt and faculty jacket. He hesitates for a fraction of a second before stepping aside to let Pat in and then hesitates again before closing the door and turning around.
Pat’s running his hand over the books on the shelf, and Pran has never felt more awkward around him. How do they do this? If they’re not arguing, what do they do? Do they hang out first? No, probably not—those aren’t the benefits in this equation.
He needs rules!
“So how do we do this?”
Pat turns, eyes wide. He seems a little nervous, too. Surprisingly, that makes Pran feel better. Pat shrugs. “I’m not sure. Should we just get right to it, then?”
Pran nods but doesn’t move.
“Ok. I’ve been thinking about it, and Ink is a driven person. She knows what she wants. So, I think she would kiss like that. So can you do that? Kiss in a....I don’t know, determined way?”
Nodding again, mostly to himself, he makes a decision and stalks over, pushing him down onto the couch behind him. He falls easily with a small ‘oof,’ apparently not expecting an ambush. Gracelessly, he swings a leg over and plops down in Pat’s lap before attacking his lips. There’s too much teeth and their noses bump together, hard, a couple of times as he changes angles, but he likes how Pat’s hair feels between his fingers as he grips the back of his head.
After the third nose bump, Pat gently pushes him away with a grimace, rubbing his nose. “Hmm, I think that might be too determined. Ink is a gentle person, you know? She’s nice. Can you maybe kiss a little more gently?”
Pran’s heart drops a little. He’d messed it up. Okay, he can do gentle. He sits a little further back and takes Pat’s face in both of his hands. His thumbs run over cheekbones that his eyes had run over a million times. His gaze flicks up to Pat’s eyes, but he can’t hold them there for long—even though he’s sitting in his lap and cradling his face and can still taste his lips, looking into Pat’s eyes from this close feels too intimate. Way more intimate than this thing they were actually doing. More intimate than he’d earned.
So instead, he looks at Pat's lips. They’re a dark pink from the earlier kiss and they’re slightly agape. Slowly, he tilts his head first this time before leaning in, just brushing their lips together softly. He lets himself savor it, tries to hold himself back as much as he can. Instead of deepening the kiss like he wants to, he breaks it, placing a small kiss on the corner of Pat’s mouth. He wants so much more, but doesn’t want to scare him away.
He’s thought about this for years—the feel of Pat’s strong thighs under him, the feel of his face in his hands, his lips against his. It’s not exactly how he’d imagined it, but it's so close, and it’s pretty good—
“Ok, ok, wait. I don’t think that’s right, either. She’s not so sentimental—”
“Pat! I can’t kiss like someone else! I can only kiss like myself. I can’t concentrate on what Ink would do and try to make it a good kiss at the same time. It’s not fun. It feels like you’re just judging how I should do it differently each time. This was a bad idea.” Pran can feel the tears of frustration and something else pressing against the back of his eyes as he starts to stand from Pat’s lap, but he knows he can hold it together at least until Pat leaves. He can’t let him see that.
“Wait, wait, wait. You’re right!” Pat says, reaching out to touch him for the first time since he’d come into the room, grabbing his arm. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. It’s weird to ask you to try to be someone else. Don’t go! Let’s just kiss like ourselves and that’ll be practice enough. I’m sorry.”
With big brown eyes pleading up at him, Pran can’t help but relent. He settles back down on his thighs and clears his throat, nervous again. What if he still wasn’t good enough now that it’s just him? He slides his hands around the back of Pat’s head again and leans in for a third time.
**
As soon as Pran’s lips press against his again, he knows he’s an idiot. Of course Pran can only kiss like himself, and now that he is, it feels so much more natural. Pat hadn’t known what to do before. The first kiss was so aggressive that he’d felt off kilter the whole time and the second one had been so slow and gentle that he’d felt almost embarrassed by how much he’d liked having Pran’s hands on his face. And when he’d looked up at the boy above him, a quick dart of Pran’s tongue to wet his lips had distracted him so fully, that he hadn’t even been paying attention to the kiss.
But now, his hands automatically find a spot on Pran’s waist that feels made for them. That very same tongue is swiping across the seam of his lips and when he lets it in—what else can he possibly do? He’s been thinking about that exact thing since he’d seen it—his stomach swoops and he starts to get hard in his jeans. He runs his hands up over Pran’s back, pulling him closer, until he’s leaning further over him, the weight pressing him into the couch cushions, and then drops his hands back to his waist. He loves Pran’s shirt, the material is so soft and when he squeezes, the body under it is so soft, too.
This is better. So much better.
Pran’s hands on his head are firm but not hard, he’s gripping his hair but not yanking it, and he’s tipping Pat’s head exactly where he wants it. He can feel the softer chest pressing against his own firmer one, and suddenly, he’s hit with the desire to see Pran’s whole body. He’s seen him with his shirt off before, of course, but he’s never looked. He’s never appreciated. He thinks he would this time. The tips of his fingers find their way up the back of Pran’s shirt and he groans into the kiss when he feels warm skin. But, as soon as he tries to push the shirt up further, Pran breaks the kiss and pulls away. He’s pretty sure he almost whines in desperation and tries to follow him to get their lips back together, but Pran sits back and tilts his head to the side, eyebrows furrowed.
“What are you doing?”
Shit. They hadn’t discussed going further than kissing really. Maybe Pran doesn’t want to? Pat doesn’t want to pressure him, but he’s also feeling pretty embarrassed by how much he still wants to see underneath the striped shirt. He pastes on as good a smile as he can and hopes the warmth in his cheeks isn’t visible. “Ah, I, uh. Well, I thought I could...give you a massage!”
“A massage?”
“Yeah!” His voice is too loud, he knows, but he’s warming to this idea. “You know! Because Ink is always carting around all that heavy camera equipment and so I think I should know how to relieve that for her!”
“Um. Ok, yeah, ok. We can, uh, do that.” Pran pushes some of his hair out of his eyes and Pat tries not to notice how puffy his lips look. He climbs off Pat’s lap and turns to sit awkwardly on the couch, facing away from him. This was the opposite of what Pat had wanted.
“Not like that. You can’t have a good massage sitting up. Why don’t you go lay down on the bed.”
“Right.” He gets up and Pat follows behind him eagerly, but then he just kind of stands at the foot of the bed, looking skeptically over his shoulder at Pat.
“Welcome to Pat’s Massage Parlor! Thank you for choosing our fine establishment, sir. Why don’t you remove your shirt and lay down on the bed, I mean, uh, massage table!”
The eyeroll is exactly what Pat’s hoping for and he grins as Pran pulls his shirt off and drapes it neatly over the back of the chair. Pat swallows. Just like he’d thought. Soft. A bit of pudge hangs over the top of Pran’s waistband, forming pleasing little mounds that he immediately has the urge to get his hands on. When he bends over to crawl up the bed, he can’t rip his eyes away from the rolls that form. The sight of him when he’s finally all laid out, shirt off, skin on display, waiting on his bed for Pat, does something to him, and he can't quite shake himself out of it until Pran shifts impatiently. “What are you waiting for?”
“Oh, uh, do you have any lotion?”
“What kind of massage parlor is this?” Pran mutters as he points to the lotion on the bedside table.
He grabs a handful of it and climbs up to sit on the back of Pran’s thighs, plopping the lotion in the middle of his back. Then he’s able to do what he’s been wanting to do since he’d hatched this ridiculous plan. Slowly, he smooths it out in all directions, finally getting his hands all over the broad expanse. “Wow, Pran, your skin is so soft.”
He just grunts, and Pat takes that as permission to keep going. His palms glide over the dip of his spine down to the small of his back and then out to the tempting love handles, squeezing them reverently. There’s something about this that feels even more vulnerable than when they had kissed. The skin between Pran’s ribs and his hands as he slides them slowly up his sides feels excruciatingly delicate, even though he knows it's not. He’s seen Pran both give and take punches, kicks, knees before—often against him—and he’s seen bruises of all shapes and sizes discolor it. But as he gets his hands over the soft meat of his shoulders, all he wants to do is make all memories of those bruises disappear.
He circles his thumbs against the sides of Pran’s neck and whispers, “How does that feel?”
“Harder.” It comes out as a groan and Pat shoots up, dick rock hard. Had he...it had sounded like...Pran......
He stares at the ear and closed eye that are visible to him, hoping Pran won’t realize what he’s thinking about. He digs his thumbs in harder and tries to ignore the aching in his pants as Pran lets out another dirty moan. But when he leans forward for better leverage, his crotch brushes against the ass below him and a sound tumbles out of his mouth before he can regain control.
Pran’s eye flies open.
“Shit. Sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll stop.”
A hand shoots back to grip his hip at an awkward angle, halting his retreat. “Pat. It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
“You don’t?”
“Don’t be stupid. That’s what we’re practicing for, isn’t it? You can,” the eye flicks down and back up, “keep doing that.”
The hand releases him and moves back up to the pillow, but the eye is still looking at him. Pat looks down at his plump ass and hesitantly, he shifts forward, deliberately grinding his cock along the seam of Pran’s pants. It feels incredible, and when Pran lifts his hips back into him, it unleashes the dam.
He bends over Pran’s back and starts rutting down into him, and is hit full in the face with the scent of the lotion he’d just applied. It smells so good, and it just makes him more frenzied. He’s close already, and even when he’s jerking off, it’s never this fast. But the pliant, squirming body below him, and the scent and the sounds of Pran’s harsh breathing as he gets a hand below himself—Pat did that, he’s the one making Pran sound like he’s gasping for air—are all combining to make this embarrassingly fast.
He shoots into his jeans, groaning and pressing his face into the beautiful, unmarred skin before him, but Pran is still thrusting into the bed, so he picks himself up and goes back to rubbing his shoulders, murmuring, “Yeah, that’s it, it feels good, doesn’t it? Do you still want it harder? C’mon Pran, I can’t believe I beat you at this.” Pran’s eye rolls at that and Pat chuckles, amused that he can be just as easy to rile up when he’s thrusting into his hand. And then Pat gets distracted by the stretch and pull of the muscles of his back as he moves. “Wow, Pran, look at you go. I can’t stop watching you. You’re incredible.”
At that, Pran tenses all over. He watches it play out across his body. His muscles ripple, eye clenches, and his mouth drops open, and Pat can’t help but stare at those parted, pink lips. Open and inviting.
He accepts the invitation and dips down to kiss them before sprawling beside him, giddy and sated. That was his first time getting off with someone else and it was great! Pran’s eyes open and Pat smiles at him, huffing out a laugh. A small smile and a large dimple appear, and Pat;s smile grows. “I’m basically a professional masseuse, huh?”
A bark of laughter. “There was nothing professional about that, Pat.”
“But you’re feeling relaxed, aren’t you? Exactly! All that heavy camera equipment is a thing of the past!”
He stares up at the ceiling, extremely pleased with himself, watching the shadows move as Pran gets up and puts on his shirt. “Mhmm.”
“Oh! By the way—what’s that lotion called? It smells so good, Pran! You should tell Ink which lotion it is. I really like it.”
Pran is still sitting on the edge of the bed, so Pat barely hears it when he mumbles out, “Yeah, sure.” There’s a pause. “Are you sleeping here again?”
“Why? Aren’t I allowed?” He lifts his eyebrows, but Pran’s face, now turned towards him, isn’t the playful Pran he’d just been a minute ago. He must have homework or something to do. “Alright, alright, I’ll head out. Just give me a minute to catch my breath. This massaging thing really takes it out of a guy. When I do it for real, I’ll have to take water breaks.”
“Yeah. Right. When you do it for real.”
He thinks Pran is going to wait with him, but he’s already at the doorway. Pat sits up, suddenly remembering his question from earlier. “Hey, wait—what did you mean earlier about us hating each other?”
Looking over the arm resting on the doorframe, Pran rolls his eyes. It should be teasing, like his eyerolls usually are, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel that way. “Eh, you know what I mean,” he says dismissively. And then he’s gone.
Pat flops back on the comfortable pillows and turns his head to burrow into them, considering. He really doesn’t.