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V
They stumble their way out of bed eventually.
Pran has always been inquisitive. When he was younger, especially, curious like most children are, but secretive about it like few. He would tuck information away in his chest, facts about space and animals and history, and only rarely pull them out like party tricks when the opportunity to show off presented itself. And then he grew up, and learned the soft shoe shuffle of social interaction, and started keeping other people’s quirks to himself — their favourites and tastes and habits, memories that they shared on a whim, so when he brought it up they would look at him, surprised and sweetly pleased and go “you remember that?” and he would say “yes, I listen when you tell me things” even though what he mostly meant was yes , and it’s mine now .
Trivial maybe, but gold to Pran, even now, because now he knows what Pat is like after somebody’s made him come, and he is the only one in the world with the privilege to keep that information to himself and he does — with a childish kind of glee, puts it in the lockbox of his brain.
So Pat is soft. Maybe he’s always soft actually — when he’s with Pran, with their friends, relentlessly golden-retriever-optimistic, but even more so now, sated and sleepy on his side of Pran’s bed. All mussyfaced and slow, eyes drooping before Pran gets him up.
(“M’sleep.”
“The sheets are gross.”
“Sheets are great, smell like us.”
“Get up .”)
Pran watches him get to his feet, coltish, like he’s forgotten how his legs work. He only looks away when he realises that they’re both naked, which — it feels weird to get shy now, but in the quiet aftermath his own skin feels loud, and he still has cum on his stomach, gross in a way it absolutely wasn’t ten minutes before. When Pat is rubbing over his eyes, Pran fishes his shirt off the floor and tries to clean himself up a little, grimaces at the tackiness, the way it comes off in flakes. He shivers, just a little disgusted. Turns around to find Pat looking and folds his face into what he hopes is deeply unimpressed monotony. “If you’re about to ask me if you can keep my dirty shirt I’m throwing you out of the room.”
“ Tch .” Pat says, but he avoids Pran’s eyes for two whole seconds, so Pran thinks he maybe wasn’t that far off. “Don’t flatter yourself.
He throws the shirt in the direction of the hamper. “That’s what I have you for.” Busies himself with nothing, impossibly aware of his body and the weight of his arms and the way they hang in the air. “Go turn the shower on?”
Pat pokes Pran’s stomach on his way past him to walk backwards towards the bathroom, and there’s nothing awkward about the lines of his body. His open palms, no problem baring himself. “Will you join me?”
“I will. Said I would, right?” And Pat’s eyes flicker downwards. And the tip of his tongue peeks out between his teeth. And Pran says, “But someone dropped a condom on the floor, so -”
“Alright, okay, fair.”
So Pran breathes, for a second. Rests in his own company. He takes care of the condom, actually throws their clothes in the hamper. Considers changing the sheets now to get it done, but he doesn’t want to leave Pat alone for too long, feels — needy, himself, and cold, like Pat took all the warmth with him, wants to cling to Pat a little while longer. Which he can do. Which he is allowed. Checking the time on his phone, Pran catches himself in the black reflection for half a second, just a shine of his eyes, and then opens the front-facing camera on a whim.
He looks - he looks like he’s been kissed, mostly. Thoroughly, and a lot. Sleep-mussed like Pat, like he’s rubbed his face in a pillow, but bright-eyed. Flushed. He looks good, he thinks to himself, and throws his phone on the bed, walking away before the smile on his face can embarrass him too much.
The bathroom’s fogging up, and Pran lets the wetness in the air warm him. He drops a towel on the floor because Pat has left the shower curtain open and Pran looks at him — swaying where he stands, head tipped in spray of water, humming something without much of a tune. He lets himself appreciate the roll of Pat’s shoulders, skin and muscle bunching together, and then steps in, reaches a hand out to stroke over Pat’s neck. He stops humming, turns around on slow feet, and Pran laughs at the expression on his face. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”
“I feel really good.” Pat says, and he — his voice is low, mumbled like he can’t be bothered to enunciate, and he has a dopey little smile on his face. He blinks at Pran, slowly, like a cat, eyes lidded, and now Pran kind feels like crying, feels high and hypersensitive and so tuned into Pat he thinks that if he tried hard enough he could read his mind.
He reels, wonders if sex is going to feel like this every time, and stumbles over his words. “I - yeah? That’s good.” Turn back around , he doesn’t say , turn around or I swear to god I’ll tell you I love you in a way that even your parents can hear. “Want me to wash your back?”
Pat moans, says “you’re the best boyfriend” and Pran hides his smile between Pat’s shoulder blades.
They try to rearrange a little, so neither of them are left too much in the cold, but Pat’s a little too tall, and the spray a little too narrow for it to work, so Pran just boxes Pat back in front of him. “I don’t want you to get -” Pat starts, and then his mouth opens on an empty sound when Pran digs his thumb into the slope of his trapezius.
Pran lathers his body wash between his hands. Thinks about how Pat is going to bring the smell with him. His skin slips against Pran’s — delves into dips and valleys when presses his fingers deep enough to feel Pat lean back again, to hear him groan. Idly and in the back of his mind Pran tries to find the divide between selflessness and selfishness — calculating how much of this is really because Pat wants to be spoiled, and how much it’s Pran wanting to touch to see what’ll happen. Because — because Pat is so willing to bare himself like this, and Pran is quietly the neediest person alive, with his soul-deep selfish urge to touch, and to have, and to keep. And then, when Pat makes this happy little sigh that makes Pran’s chest puff up completely on its own, he decides that maybe there is more of an overlap than a distinction. (He spends a bittersweet thought on his high school self, wrapped up in all that anger and reluctant love. Tries to remember if he ever believed it would actually get better)
He gets a little lost in it, mindless with gliding flat palms down the slope of Pat’s back, rubbing soap over his shoulders. Pran makes himself a home of Pat’s skin. The way he’s wanted to. Because he’s wanted to.
Eventually though, Pat’s sounds change. Or rather they disappear, his pleased little hums catching in his throat. He sounds like he’s trying to be quiet, and his posture goes from putty under Pran’s hands to tense, shaking in little bursts of concentration. Pran smiles, because confidence is a dangerous thing on him, and also Pat can’t see him anyway. He cleans his hands. Tells Pat to duck his head and pushes him a little forward to wash the lather away, tucks him back against his chest.
“You alright? He whispers. His lips press against the nape of Pat’s neck, clean, warm water slipping into his mouth. He feels Pat’s choked laugh vibrate through bone and muscle.
“I hate you.”
“What’s the problem, baby?” He’s a little self-conscious of — everything, the pet name, the closeness, the way his voice gives off a too-deep, too-serious echo in the stall but Pat just shivers against him, and takes Pran’s hands off his waist, squeezes them as he turns around, and —
God —
Pran thought it would take a little longer, is the thing.
It’s not like Pran is unaffected, closeness and heat getting to him. But he still feels sated, and definitely not hard yet, sensitivity lining his body. Pat, though.
Pat looks like he’s about to come out of his skin. Mouth parted and chest heaving and eyes so dark and so close here, looking down at him. He’s hard, curved up against his stomach, and Pran wants to press closer, get all up against each other and have Pat shake against him, rub off on his stomach. Wants to wrap his arms around Pat’s middle, wants to get on his knees, wants to have Pat spread his legs and see how far he’ll let him go.
Pran kisses him and Pat’s dick rubs against his stomach, so for a second he doesn’t kiss him back, just gasps into his mouth — and this is fine as well, Pat too wrapped up in feeling good to do anything but keep his mouth open, letting Pran kiss at his slack lips.
“M’sorry.” He gasps, voice wet. Water runs off of his hair onto Pran, over his nose, his mouth. His hands curl around Pran’s elbows. His hips twitch and Pran wants to scream at the feeling of him rubbing against his stomach, the soft give of Pran’s skin. “I wanted to, like — wash your hair and take care of you, but your hands, and you — you’re just — fuck —“ Pran wriggles his eyebrows, a little stupidly, and kisses Pat’s cheek, feeling confident and excited and aroused. “What am I?” He says, puts a hand in the middle of Pat’s chest. He scratches over the skin, slick, slippery. “What am I, hm?”
“Beautiful.” A pause. A burst of warmth in his chest.
There’s some part of Pran’s brain that lights up in irritation, covering him in this juvenile little flush of embarrassment. Despite himself. Despite knowing better, despite being smart enough to think it shouldn’t affect him, despite . The same middle school leftovers that won’t let Pat call him his wife, a little too aware of their differences, the — proportions . (Pat is better at this than Pran, so eager to fuck around with gender in a way that Pran never could. I’ll be the wife then. Something hot settles over him, realising how many times he just called Pat pretty.)
Except - because there are always exceptions, to everything, but especially to Pat, because he has a way of convincing Pran that the world is a different place than what it looks to be - Pat makes it sound. Bigger, somehow. Through his doing, it turns into such a good word, like it’s something that just belongs to them. Like Pran has never actually heard the word before, and Pat is coining and defining it in real time.
And he knows it’s good because it’s Pat. Knows that there’s a laundry list of things he’ll probably be okay with, if he just only hears it in Pran’s voice.
He smiles, despite himself, despite. Touches Pat’s stomach, thumbs over his hip bones. In return Pat touches his elbows, his shoulders, his neck, like he’s trying to commit something to memory. Makes Pran’s skin feel like it’s buzzing, lighting up in the wake of Pat’s palms. Again, Pat looks at him with these wide eyes, something like eager understanding in them. “We don’t have to.” He says, and Pran doesn’t sigh. “I can let you shower—”
“You’re sweet.” Pran says, after not sighing. “But that’s the second time you’ve made it sound like getting you off is a chore for me. And it’s the second time I’ve even gotten to do it.” Pat looks caught. He smiles, embarrassed and self-conscious, and Pran realises a little late to the game that Pat might have his own brand of guilt when it comes to this. To wanting, and Pran, and to wanting Pran. God, Pran really did use to consider himself an observant person. He raises his eyebrows. Blinks the water out of his eyes when Pat shakes his head.
“Just — if you were tired from before.” Pat clarifies.
Pran laughs, moment a little broken, and his voice echoes against the tile, loud over the hum of the shower. “Oh, yeah .” He says, and Pat relaxes, gets that look of cocky irritation he gets when Pran’s about to make fun of him, that I’ll take whatever you ditch look. Pran ditches. “My wrist is aching after those two minutes. It was rough. Think I need to ice it.”
Pat takes it — pushes at Pran’s shoulder, but softly, catches his arm before he even stumbles. “Alright, hot shot, you didn’t last long either.” It’s a little silly to do this right now, just — dicks out, Pat hard and warm and red all over, but Pran just smiles, chest awfully tingly, and pushes Pat’s wet hair away from his face.
“How could I, with the view I had?”
Pat kisses him. Puts his wet mouth around Pran’s lower lip and sucks. “Was it good? I didn’t even ask.”
“Of course it was good.” He can’t really joke about that — pretty sure that Pat saw him black out for a second. Pat’s hands twitch, like he’s holding himself back, and Pran — looks at his hands, words on his tongue. His long fingers, the knobs of his knuckles. He hums.
“Would you touch yourself?”
Pat makes a sound like he’s been punched in the chest. Mouth open, black eyes. Pran’s a genius. “I — what ?”
“Would you let me watch?” He skirts his hands over Pat’s hips, over his stomach, grazes against the inside of his elbows. “I can rest my aching wrist that way.”
Pat’s not really hard to convince. Pran didn’t think he would be. But he still keeps his eyes on Pran’s when he puts a hand around himself and Pran wants to coo at the way his face twitches, eyes fluttering and teeth digging into his lip. Pran wonders if he’s sensitive, if it’s kind of too much. He looks down, breathless, swallows a moan — it’s everything, he supposes, getting to watch Pat knowing that he’s done this before, that he does this sometimes. That he’ll get to see what Pat likes.
Like an afterthought, he grabs Pat’s wrist and Pat curses. “I never want you to apologise for feeling good. I really like it when you feel good.” Pran says. “Okay?”
Pat’s nodding. “Okay, okay, I won’t.”
“Okay.” Pran says. “Okay.” Okay, good . “Go ahead.”
He thinks that maybe he should feel weird, just standing in front of Pat like this, but there’s no space between them for him to feel anything but perfectly, terribly voyeuristic, red-hot and overwhelmed. Pat goes slow, his whole body shivering and Pran can’t decide what he’d rather look at, everything about Pat stunning and erotic in a way that makes his breath shake. His face, both slack and pinched up in concentration, his open mouth, the drops of water that cling to his eyebrows and eyelashes and the tip of his nose. That fucking furrow between his eyebrows that Pran’s so obsessed with, because it looks like Pat’s annoyed at how good he’s feeling, angry or in pain. His long fingers, how easily he touches himself — slowly, but straining to do so, as if he has to try hard not to indulge himself.
Pat’s shivering, like it’s too much, like he’s nervous, like he’s close to coming already. He puts a hand on the wall, which Pran takes and wraps it the back of his own neck, knocking their foreheads together.
Both his hands are free. Pran intends to cause maximum damage.
He explores, mostly, because he’s mindlessly fascinated by the motherboard of Pat’s body and what he can touch to get it to light up. Scratches his nails over his stomach to watch him suck in a breath, chest jumping. He puts a hand over the swell of his pectoral to feel his pulse, but grazes against a nipple, and Pat moans and Pran’s a genius . He steels himself, tongue pressed into a point behind his teeth — rubs his index finger over Pat’s nipple and Pat’s nails dig into the nape of his neck, hard enough to hurt, scrabbling over skin. “Yeah?” Pran asks, not expecting an answer, but Pat nods, teeth in his lip, biting out what sounds like uh-huh , and Pran feels like he’s swallowed hot coals. Core burning, he brings both hands to Pat’s chest. Twirling the pebbled skin between thumb and index finger of one hand, he keeps his eyes trained on Pat’s face, the mask of desperation, how he can’t keep his eyes open.
“You’re so sensitive here.” Pran says, and digs his nail into the areola, thinking with his teeth. Water drops slide over Pat’s nipple, the point of it, and Pran rubs it over the skin, circular. He lets Pat paw at his neck and presses his free hand into the give of his ribcage, fits his fingers into the dips between bone.
“Aren’t —” Pat gasps, all his words halfway things and stuttering, “Aren’t you?”
Pran shakes his head, pinches. “Mostly ticklish. Doesn’t really feel good like that. But you really like it, don’t you?” Mine , now , he thinks. Juvenile, possessive. I know, and it’s mine now.
Pat makes less and less sense, the more attention Pran pays to his chest. There’s something about the way he feels good, the way he obviously loves this that still makes Pran feel mean. Pat looks like he’d ask Pran to stop if he wasn’t so close. Pran kind of wants to put his mouth on him and see if he’ll cry. Thought half-formed, barely there and a little insane, he brings his mouth in between his fingers and sucks.
Pat sort of loses his mind a little, can’t stay still against Pran, pushing up and pulling away and squirming and God, Pran really kind of likes it when Pat doesn’t know what to do with himself. And then, hurried and desperate “ I’m gonna, I’m going to ” like Pran can’t fucking tell with how loud he’s gotten, loud enough that people outside the door would know exactly what’s happening, and Pran doesn’t answer, or react in a way that Pat has the mind to notice — just breaks the seal of his mouth with teeth and tongue, licking the water from Pat’s chest and bites until Pat’s hand grabs at his hair and chokes out a groan that Pran can feel under his mouth, until Pat’s coming over his hand, shaking.
Pran is, for one, achingly fucking hard, and for another, starting to think that they’re really good at sex.
He intends to rinse them both off, and then — something else, he supposes, because he can’t think further than about seven seconds into the future right now, but Pat grabs his head with both hands, pulls him into one of the more dramatic kisses they’ve ever head, their bodies pressed together from head to toe, rainwater-wet, the shower spray quickly losing its warmth, but Pran can’t think about that right now, can’t think of anything except the tightness in his stomach, his want to get them both filthy and mindless and alone, forever. Being with Pat like this makes him stupid, one-track minded, but Pat might be worse than him, so it’s fine. They break away, and Pat looks a little ruined, unstable on his feet. He swipes his thumb over Pran’s lower lip. “Can I touch you now, please?” His words dig into Pran’s stomach and pull, all sweet and sharp, and Pran wonders, not for the first time, if Pat knows what he sounds like when he gets like that. Wide-eyed. Pleased.
Instead of saying what he wants to say,
yes god yes please always
he pauses for a moment, looks over Pat’s face. “Didn’t you want to wash my hair?” He says, as casual as he can muster with absolutely no blood in his brain.
“Well—” Pat says, eyes flickering, “well, yeah , but—”
Again, now — some part of him, some mean, careless part of him kind of likes it when Pat gets stumped, when his bravado gets all tangled up in his tongue and he trips over his words. When Pat blinks at him like that, clueless and a little desperate. He huffs, like a child denied a treat, and Pran laughs, too desperate to actually keep it up any longer. “I’m kidding, sorry.” He takes Pat’s hand, and only after kissing the palm of it remembers that it’s the one he touched himself with — and then kisses it again, the roadmap of his life line, the tips of his fingers. “You can touch me, if you want.”
He wants. Pran knows now. Pat rearranges them with his eyes always straying back to Pran’s, like he’s expecting to be told off any minute, but Pran lets him push them around until his back is against Pat’s chest, the two of them pasted together. Pat, soft against his lower back but curled up around his shoulders, big and solid — it's so embarrassingly hot that Pran can’t help but laugh, covering his face when Pat starts touching him, overwhelmed.
Pat huffs. “Please don’t laugh at me when I’m trying to seduce you.” It’s a dumb thing to say when his hand is literally on Pran’s dick and he laughs at that, too, squirms, hands still on his face because he doesn’t know where else to put them.
“You don’t have to try anymore, it’s obviously — mh, it’s done.” The novelty of having someone else’s hand on him still has Pran reeling, unable to predict the bursts and waves of pleasure, levee crumbling. And Pat probably feels like Pran did, kid-in-a-candy-store excited at the prospect of having someone else’s gratification in his hands. Or maybe not like Pran did — probably more desperate to please and less power hungry.
“I’m never gonna stop seducing you.” Pat says, and kisses at Pran’s neck, his face until Pran finally lets his hands fall, instead grabbing at what he can reach — hair and neck and shoulders, maybe too hard, maybe too much nail, but Pat just sighs against him, kisses the corner of his mouth. He lets Pat take care of him — hold up his weight when his legs start shaking, his arm cinched around Pran’s waist so tight he can feel it squeeze around his ribs on every breath. Hopes that Pat will think for him too, because he can’t focus on anything, thinks that he’s making more noise than he’d like, even with his teeth in his lip.
“You’re going so — slow.” He says, and when Pat laughs and moves his hand a little faster, Pran dips his head back against his shoulder, eyes closed. There is weightlessness just between his hips, a pleasure he can taste. Pat swears, kisses his temple. His thumb on the head of Pran’s dick, curling up, sharp-edged and a little mean in a way that catches Pran off guard, makes him squirm until Pat relents. Pran gasps, digs his nails into Pat’s shoulder. On purpose this time.
“God, you’re so fucking hot.” Pat says, and it settles on him like hands, lighting up on his skin. “You’re so hot it hurts me, sometimes.” Even though he feels like he’s going to shake out of his body, like there isn’t room to feel this good, even with everything feeling too-much, too-sensitive, Pran can feel himself hurtle towards the edge, no choice in the matter when Pat’s the one taking him there. “Come on,” Pat says, and he sounds — pleading, like he wants it as bad as Pran does, “come on, baby.”
Less like falling, more like something’s ripped out of him. He buries his face in Pat’s neck, groans through clenched teeth when Pat pulls it out of him with both hands, tight and quick between his legs — intuitive, inquisitive. Pran gasps into Pat’s skin, wrung-out and shaking, and thinks about putting himself in the lockbox of Pat’s brain.
The water cools. Pat says “ fuck ” and Pran would have to agree, shivers when Pat’s hands leave him for a second and then come back, clean.
Finally, they turn the water off. Pran lets the feeling come back to his legs. Keeps his eyes closed while his skin erupts in goosebumps, the cold finding its way to him, even when Pat folds his arms all the way around his chest, dragging close-mouthed kisses all over his face. They stand in silence. Echo-y and heavy. Pran thinks he’s never felt better.
And then —
“Do you think about me when you do this to yourself?”
Pran groans. He tries to get out of Pat’s grip but doesn’t succeed, obviously, wouldn’t even if he wasn’t boneless and shaking. “Don’t you have an off-button?” He asks, slaps at Pat’s arms. Their skin slips. He wraps his fingers around Pat’s wrist, digs the pruned up tips into bone.
“No.” Pat says. He puts his chin on Pran’s shoulder and Pran is glad that they at least aren’t looking at each other. “Do you think about me?”
He sighs. “I’m usually too embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. I’ll send you pictures if you like.”
“Oh my god .” This time he successfully pushes himself off, just to turn around and push him, whacking at his chest where he’s — bruised pretty badly actually, blooming red around his nipple, which Pran tries not to think about.
Pat takes the assault, halfheartedly grabbing at Pran’s hands. “You didn’t see what I just saw. I’m literally going to get hard again.” The burst of pearling laughter from Pran surprises them both, and Pat smiles, takes it when Pran falls against him. “Stop laughing, Pran, this is a serious problem.”
Pran just knocks his forehead against Pat’s collarbone. Smells his body wash on his skin. “Caught in a never ending loop of jerking off. We’re gonna die here, Pat.”
Pat relents and Pran is, finally, genuinely exhausted. They dry themselves off. Quiet, just Pat’s inane little hums to fill the bathroom, because he constantly just has to make noise. Sniffling and singing and talking to himself, and Pran listens, and silently loves the white noise of Pat’s existence. Skin care, brushed teeth. Pran’s voice, softly reminding.
Pat follows him, like this. Out of the bathroom, right on his heels, real close behind. Not quite touching and Pran thinks that it’s not because he thinks that he’s not allowed, but because it’s a nice medium for the both of them — like a moment of transition after shared touch was something desperate, a cooling down period where they still get to be close. Pran lets him, smiles at the doting look on Pat’s face when he’s given soft-spoken orders. Directed, dressed in Pran’s clothing.
They make the bed — Pat’s not even slightly discreet about lifting the dirty duvet cover to his face and breathing in and Pran’s not even slightly discreet about his groan, his rolling eyes. “Freak.” He says, and Pat smiles at him, so fucking happy at being teased that Pran can’t stand it, the softness of him, his eyes narrowed and crinkly, his wet hair all over the place. Wearing his favourite shirt of Pran’s.
“Smell like you.” He says, and gets on the now clean covers while Pran puts around the room. Like he always does, a little neurotic about things and their places and the morning routine. Pat just watches him, pleased.
“Don’t they smell like you, too?” Pran asks, and Pat stretches out, long and heavy and tired-looking, sinking into Pran’s bed. Where he looks good, where he belongs. Pat shrugs. His eyes are closing.
“Don’t know what I smell like. Do I smell good?” He does. Even when he doesn’t, technically. Warm and boyish, the sting of his deodorant. Cotton. Pran wipes his feet, gets in next to Pat.
“I don’t have your bloodhound nose.”
While Pat gets closer to him, snuffling into the pillow and then his neck, Pran checks his phone. It’s been almost an hour, since his waffling you wanna , the sun’s just now setting and remarkably, Pran feels mostly the same. He takes stock of his body, feels it down to the bones. Tired. Taken care of, like Pat has nursed him back to health from the flu instead of just making him come a couple of times. Appreciated, wanted, loved. In love.
The word sticks in his throat, sweet and overwhelming, but good, but so good — he thinks he should have a harder time saying it, or even thinking it, but it feels a little like a matter of course, maybe. Because of course he’s in love. And of course it’s Pat. A little like the decision was made by someone else, no less important for it.
Getting comfortable, Pran looks to the side expecting to see Pat’s sleeping face and meets his eyes instead, wide-open. Little whirlpools of black in the dark. Pat smiles. “Still just thinking about me?” A rhetorical question, obvious in the sweet tease of his voice.
Pran rolls his eyes. “Goodnight, Pat.”
“G’night, baby.”
The words rest on his tongue, tickling. He doesn’t say them right now, chooses instead to put his mouth on the side of Pat’s, pressing them soundlessly into the skin there. When Pat turns his head to kiss him properly, so close his nose digs into his cheek, he hears the words passed back. Whether Pat says them or not — because of course.