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When Art and Paul return to their hotel room after a gig in the middle of the first leg of the tour, or however they decide to call the string of college shows they’re doing, there’s a guy nervously pacing in front of the entrance of the hotel. He has one hand in the pocket of his trousers and in the other a cigarette dangles between his fingers, of which he takes tense drags now and again. Paul notices him first, even though his head is pleasantly buzzing from the drinks he’s had after the gig. He nudges Art, who is walking besides him on equally wobbly feet. He doesn’t say anything when Art looks questioningly back at him, but silently motions his head in the direction of the strange appearance of the person a few yards in front of them. Art shrugs.
It gets even weirder when the guy catches sight of them and the faint light from the lamp above the entrance starts to reflect in the sweat that’s pooling on his forehead. Paul frowns.
“Ummm,” the guy says as he approaches them. “I’m so sorry. There’s been some kind of mix-up.”
The guy is young, though probably only by a few years compared to them. To Paul it looks like this is his first job, which might explain his nervousness. Still, he’s not sure what the mix-up has to do with them. He isn’t even sure if they’re supposed to know this man.
After the young bloke has thrown his cigarette butt on the ground and puts it out by squashing it with his foot, he gingerly speaks up again. “The hotel room. It…uh.” He stops. It’s quite obvious he is avoiding having to continue speaking.
The guy must be someone that Mort or their agency hired to make hotel reservations and takes care of practical things on the dates on which Mort isn’t driving them to and from the venue. Paul wonders what could be so bad about the hotel room. He looks at Art, who stares over the guy’s shoulder at the hotel as well, seemingly also at a loss of what’s going on. The cool air is starting to penetrate the cotton of the t-shirts they’re both wearing, and Paul becomes aware of the night chill when he sees goosebumps appearing on Art’s forearms.
“Listen,” Paul speaks up. “What is it about the hotel room?”
The guy winces, but decides it’s better to come clean than prolong the inevitable. “It only has one bed. I thought I booked one with two beds, but…” he manages, and apologizes profusely right after.
Paul wants to laugh. Art is biting back a witty come-back too. Paul can literally see it appear in Art’s facial expression.
“Oh,” Paul says instead. “That’s okay, we’ll survive.” He really wants to get inside to warm up. “Do you have the key?”
Art takes it out of the guy’s hand once he produces the key from his pocket. It’s hanging on a golden keychain with a black tag containing the room’s number. “Don’t worry about it,” Paul assures the guy. “It’s okay.”
Art yawns in agreement. Both Paul and Art are just too tired and maybe just a bit on the wrong side of tipsy to be angry about it. They’ve been told to share rooms to cut down on expenses, though the beds were always singles up until now. Still, Paul’s bunked on a made-up mattress or a stack of cushions in the bedroom of Art’s childhood house too many times to even think that the hotel’s misunderstanding is something they have to create a fuss over. Besides, he’s tired and he’s not in the mood for starting an argument.
When they get up to their floor and open the door to their hotel room, it is indeed furnished with only one bed, standing in the middle against the wall on the other side of the room from the door, their luggage neatly in the corner, the carpet muffling their feet shuffling inside. The queen-sized bed looks large enough. Paul thinks it can’t be too bad. Besides, he’ll soon be sleeping anyway. After undressing to their underwear and sleepily brushing their teeth, they both happily sink down into the mattress.
It’s bad. It’s pure torture. It’s hell. Paul had forgotten that Art snores when he’s had a few drinks. He also tosses and turns in the bed and the mattress squeaks and wobbles and Paul’s hasn’t been able to close one eye. He hits Art in the side a few times, but except for a grunt and another wobble as Art turns to his other side, it doesn’t stop Art from resuming his snoring. Paul doesn’t quite know how to reconcile these noises with the angelic singing that usually leaves Art’s mouth. “Art,” he hisses angrily, his tired eyes stinging behind his eyelids. “Hmmmm?” Art replies, but Paul doubts he’s consciously awake.
“Fucking hell,” Paul mutters, and tries to roll on his side, his knees pulled up, about as far as he can get from the middle of the bed, where Art’s splayed out widely. The bed sheets roll with him, and Art grumbles at the loss of the duvet on top of him. He tries to steal it back, which angers Paul even more. What follows is some tugging back and forth. Art eventually gives up and Paul thinks he’s won, but then Art moves completely to the side of the bed where Paul is and basically crowds in on him. “What the fuck?!” Paul scolds. He’s pretty sure that Art is just doing this to taunt him, but Art’s soft voice purrs in his ear. “You stole the sheets. Now I’m stealing a bit of your warmth.” Slurring a bit, Art basically curls his body around Paul’s, Art’s knees tucked into Paul’s knee cavities and Art’s arm coming up around his waist, effectively pinning Paul to the bed. Art’s forehead comes to rest between Paul’s shoulder blades, the arm that’s not slung over Paul’s body resting between his own stomach and Paul’s backside.
Paul is trying to wrestle himself out of Art’s hold on him, protesting. Art tightens his grip and shushes Paul. “Be quiet and go to sleep,” he hums drowsily, nuzzling the side of Paul’s head, a hint of alcohol on his breath still. And Paul is trying to be mad about it but honestly, he is too exhausted to put up much of a fight. Eventually, he relaxes when Art’s breath also deepens, the rise and fall of Art’s chest tangible against his back. At least in this position there’s no snoring coming from behind him.
In the morning, Art doesn’t have to know that when Paul does fall asleep in the end, it’s the best night of slumber he’s had in quite a while. After opening his eyes, he stretches and turns and is met with the sight of Art blinking lazily up at him, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, sporting a gentle smile and humming good morning. Paul’s spirits lift and he is in such a good mood all day long, that both Mort and Art come up to him asking if he is feeling all right.
On the night of the next tour date, there has been no mix-up. They still share a hotel room, but they each have a bed, standing on opposite corners in the room. It’s a spacious room, though modestly furnished. The beds are more than seven feet apart. Paul doesn’t know why he has calculated the distance in his head. Numbers are Art’s thing.
The crowd was a bit loud this evening, and Paul’s head has been throbbing lightly. When he climbs under the covers, he closes his eyes, massages his temples. Art is quietly humming in the bathroom while brushing his teeth, the vibrations of his voice actually soothing the flashes of pain just above Paul’s eye sockets. When Art is done and turns out the bathroom light, Paul expects him to extinguish the one in the room next, but Art's hand lingers near the light switch.
Paul reopens his eyes, just as he catches Art’s gaze sweep over Paul’s form in his bed and then his own bed, the one that stands seven feet away. Art’s eyes return to look at Paul. “What?” Paul whispers hoarsely. “Nothing,” Art says, and the light goes out, the only illumination in the room coming from the faint nightstand lamp at Art’s side of the room. Art falls into his bed, says “night, Paul,” and then the room is draped in total darkness.
Paul tries to fall asleep, but he is, more than on any other occasion, exceptionally aware of the rustling of Art’s bed sheets and Art’s breath, quiet puffs of air escaping his mouth. He visualises it in his head as wispy swirls of smoke curling toward the ceiling. He hears Art turn, and Paul is left to speculate whether, if he’d light his nightstand lamp now, he would see Art’s face or the back of his head.
“Artie?” he calls softly, but regrets it immediately. He doesn’t even know why he has made a sound. Luckily for him, Art’s breathing has been slowing and he doesn’t respond to his name being called. Which, Paul thinks, is a good thing, because he has no clue what he would have said if Art had answered.
When he does fall asleep, Paul dreams of a brick wall that is built in the middle of the stage. Art is on one side, he is on the other, and they have to shout to hear each other in order to nail their harmonies. Paul’s head is still throbbing when Art shakes his shoulder to wake him up in the morning.
Paul is left to wonder why, each time they get back to their hotel room after a gig, he is almost expecting cigarette guy or the front desk clerk to apologise for messing up again. It gets to the point where he’s not only just expecting it, he’s almost wishing for it, and he is trying very hard not to delve deeper into that strain of thoughts.
The thing is, his sleeping pattern has been abysmal for the past couple of weeks. This, in turn, makes him cranky and sensitive during the day, and his bad temper frequently turns into snapping at people, including Art. The first couple of times, Art dismisses it as just one of Paul’s bad moods that will blow over soon enough, but when it keeps happening, the atmosphere in rehearsals rapidly turns icy. Paul knows when Art starts tip-toeing around him, and it gets exponentially awkward in the evenings, when Art can’t turn his back to him fast enough in their separate beds once they’ve both finished their bathroom rituals in increasingly stony silence.
Paul wants to try and explain himself, but he doesn’t know how and where to start. He’s not even sure he can put his finger to why he’s been feeling so out of sorts as of late. He knows he can’t let this go on too long because Art hasn’t done anything wrong, and the audience is on the verge catching on to their harmony game and, if he isn’t careful, their friendship, going down the drains.
The penultimate date of the spring leg of the tour ends with cigarette guy sitting on the steps of the hotel, waiting for them to return. Art stays awfully quiet. Paul addresses the boy, and jokes, “let me guess. One bed?” Instead of answering Paul, the guy looks up at Art, whose expression is one of utter indifference.
“I’m so sorry,” cigarette guy says, and holds out the key to Paul silently. “You can blame me, I….”
The lack of a smoke in his hand this time unhinges Paul, who sighs, grabbing the key. “It’s okay,” he says. “Again. Don’t worry about it.” Paul sneaks a glance at Art, but the latter’s face remains unreadable.
Unlike the last time they shared a bed, Art is not attempting to get in his personal space at all. On the contrary, Art is lying stiffly on his back on his side of the bed, propped up against a pillow, a notebook in his hands, in which he makes some quiet scribbles. He can’t be blamed, Paul thinks. Their uncomfortable interactions of the past few weeks, void of any pleasantries, don’t really lean themselves to happy cuddling at night. And by now Paul has worked out that that is what the problem is. Paul has to admit that the last time they had to sleep in the same bed didn’t turn out to be the worst thing at all, and if he’s being really honest with himself, maybe he has kind of missed Art’s presence close to him at night. Fuck, he has realized he actually wants Art and him to sleep all cuddled up. Instead he’s been a complete jerk to Art, making it look like he hated every single second of that night.
When Art closes his notebook and prepares to turn off the light on his side of the bed, Paul figures he has to try to salvage the situation.
“Artie?” he whispers, and it takes three incredibly long seconds for Art to turn his head and cast his eyes in Paul’s direction. “I…I’m…I’m sorry,” Paul stammers. He isn’t usually one for apologising, and he should have anticipated the next question, but somehow he didn’t, and so when Art asks “what are you sorry for, Paul?” he has to take a moment of silence in order to gather his thoughts. Despite his earlier resolve to make things right, he still doesn’t know exactly how to broach the subject. “I just…for my behaviour during the last few days, or weeks. I don’t know…I didn’t mean for this. I wanted to...”
While Paul is searching for his words, Art shifts next to him, and the scene that Paul witnesses next breaks his heart. Art is most definitely on the verge of tears, looking down to his hands for which he doesn’t seem to find a purpose anymore, mindlessly fiddling with the sheets. He’s sniffing quietly to mask the emotions spilling out of him, scattering in all directions like a box of marbles falling on the floor, but he’s doing such a poor job of it that Paul’s stomach clenches painfully. He has done this. He has made Art feel bad. “Artie…,” he says again, and in a strange turn of events it’s suddenly Art who faces him and starts to apologise. “Sorry if I was too….rash that night. I shouldn’t have held you down like that. I seem to have made you angry, and that wasn’t what I…I didn’t…I wasn’t thinking, I was drunk, and I…”
“Oh god, Art, no…,” Paul begins, because that’s just not what this is about, or maybe it is, but not in the way Art thinks it is. “No. I’m not mad at all about that. I was disappointed…” Art’s eyeing him with obvious despair, and Paul figures it’s crazy how easily he can mess this whole thing up, at a loss for the right words, despite being a songwriter and having a degree in English. “I meant I was disappointed that we couldn’t…uh. I actually slept really well that night,” he finishes lamely, and Art’s frowning by now. Paul has to refrain from reaching up and brushing his thumb over the downward line of Art’s eyebrows.
“So what are you saying?” Art asks, his eyes still watery and his voice quivering like an arrow that’s just hit the bull’s eye with a dull thwack.
Paul knows he has to clean up his act and tell the truth. “I am saying that I really didn’t mind. I loved it, okay?” he finally divulges. “I loved snuggling with you that bed.” Partly because he wants to hide his face, embarrassed, and partly in reinforcement of the point he just made, he scoots closer to where Art’s body makes several dents in the mattress, and hugs him, his one hand on Art’s chest, his leg curled over Art’s and his head on the soft but at the same time taut flesh of Art’s upper arm. “I’m really sorry,” he repeats, and this time there can be no disguising of what he means behind drinks or weed. He’s dead sober now, as is Art, and if he’s just admitted to Art that he has wanted to sleep in the same bed every night since that fateful night when their tour management or the hotel or whoever was responsible made a mistake, so be it.
Art, trapped under one of Paul's hands, seems to stop breathing for a tiny moment, a small inhalation of air suspended mid-way in his chest, lasting no longer than the hand of a watch ticking from one second to the next. When Art releases this lungful of air back into the room, it carries the sound of Paul’s name. And the edge of whining, of longing, of quiet desperation his name contains in that moment, leaves Paul unable to decide whether he never wants to hear that particular sound to come out of Art’s mouth again or whether this is the only way his name gets to be pronounced from now on. Preferably by Art. Only by Art. A crackling lightning bolt of warmth spreads from the top of his spine to the bottom of his feet.
He raises his head to look at Art and finds Art’s eyes already sweeping over his face, Art’s eyelashes dark and long and shiny like the bristles of an unused paintbrush, his gaze coming to a stop on the grooves that connect Paul’s upper lip with his nose and then shifting back and forth between that spot and Paul’s eyes.
Paul has lived through a few romances and he has seen enough movies to recognise that sequence of events, and if he is at all surprised, his body doesn’t show it. In fact, he finds himself moving of his own accord, propping himself on one elbow. In the course of only a few seconds, his mind turns from stunned disbelief to alarmingly fast acceptance, and in that moment, it feels like his entire being, the deepest, most inner part of his soul, is willingly making decisions that will alter the course of his life. “Fuck,” he says, making his intent clear, and Art’s eyes widen in response. After that, Paul is not sure which one of the two of them makes the first move, but it isn’t until he feels the soft curve of Art’s upper lip between his own lips, that he realises someone closed the distance between them.
The kiss starts out as just a press of mouth against mouth, but Paul hears Art make a small sound in the back of his throat, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do to stop heat from pooling in his stomach. He lets the hand that was on Art’s chest travels upwards, and closes it around the nape of Art’s neck. They seem to take a breath in at the same time, and then the situation becomes no-holds-barred. The kiss turns into an open-mouthed wrestle between their tongues, an alternating cat-and-mouse game of catching each other’s bottom lip between their teeth and both of their noses denting the other’s cheek.
Paul can’t think; the one elbow on which he leans, starts to shake because of the body weight it has to support, but Art somehow catches on and sneaks his arm around Paul’s shoulder to support him, never breaking the kiss. Art pulls him more upright, and Paul figures his best course of action is to go with it, which is how he finds himself completely pressed on top of Art, their chests and hips and legs slotting together like the two last pieces of a puzzle.
“God…,” he hears and feels Art saying against his mouth, and in his head Paul says his own prayer of thanks to the powers that be for this…thing between them that makes his toes curl and his heart beat in his throat.
Paul’s last working brain cell registers that Art is hard under him even before he becomes aware of his own erection straining in his boxers. Before he can figure out his next move, Art’s hand slides daringly from Paul’s shoulder blades down his back and comes to a stop on his butt cheek, gently squeezing through his boxer shorts. But as if that isn’t enough, Art’s hand disappears beneath the waistband of his underwear next and then Art’s cupping his ass as if it’s all they’ve been doing with each other in their bedrooms since they first met. Paul has to break the kiss momentarily to catch some air; his mouth hovers above Art’s as he’s breathing in, and then he pulls back slightly to look at Art, who continues to massage his butt with one hand and has his other slid warmly around Paul’s cheek. Paul is secretly impressed with Art’s sexual prowess – here’s this shy neighbour kid from Queens feeling him up and kissing him rather adeptly – a thought immediately followed by a pang of envy because someone other than Paul has taught him. Someone other than him has witnessed Art like this before, flushed cheeks, hooded eyes and the curly mess of his golden hair even more tousled than usual.
These thoughts quickly dissipate when Art decides to roll his hips and creates some friction that leaves Paul panting with desire. “Artie…” he whines. “I’m gonna need you to…” Before he can utter the rest of his sentence, Art cuts him off with a breathy “yeah…yeah,” and starts groping between their underwear. Paul is painfully hard, his dick closed in between his own legs and Art’s groin, and, with only a layer of underwear between them, he feels that Art is suffering the same fate. He is extremely thankful that neither of them usually wears pyjamas to bed.
Paul shifts his body from its position on top of Art, and instead rolls onto his side, which gives Art full access to his lower body. While Art doesn’t waste any time fumbling with Paul’s waistband, reaching his hand inside, cupping Paul’s dick, his hands’ movements become more cautious, softer. Paul manages to look at Art’s face despite the fireworks going off in his underwear, and Art looks so bashful, his eyes cast downward, entranced by what he finds under his fingers, cheeks glowing and pink. Once Art notices that Paul is staring at him, their eyes meet, and Art gets even more flustered, whispering “Paul…I…” And there’s nothing else Paul can do but to tell Artie to “shut up, Art, and kiss me again,” because he just can’t stand it.
Art does, presses his lips to Paul’s again but never releases his hold on Paul’s cock. Paul is deciding whether both sensations on different body parts still render enough oxygen for him to also start roaming his hands over Art’s body. He finds that they do, for now, and his fingers begin their journey under Art’s undershirt, along Art’s ribs, across his nipples, and to his navel, where they glide through Art’s happy trail, and Paul thinks he could have never even predicted how much this would turn him on.
When he’s reaching for Art’s dick, straining in Art’s underwear just as much as his is, Art moans, and the sound is captured by Paul’s own mouth. Then Paul figures they’re still wearing too many clothes, and he breaks the kiss to move on the bed, sitting up on his knees, and pulling Art with him to a more vertical position. Grabbing Art’s undershirt, he pulls it gently over Art’s head, and Art raises his arms willingly before dropping them around Paul’s neck again as Art’s shirt, followed by his own, lands somewhere between the wall and the bed.
Paul lets his eyes do some roaming over Art’s upper body and is pleased with what he sees in this new light; Paul may have seen it all when they were teenagers, but now he’s really looking. Art is slenderly built, the edges of his ribcage slightly visible under the taut pull of his skin, his chest hair shaped in the form of a straight line down to his navel. Several moles are spread out on his stomach and hips and Art’s nipples stand pinkish and erect: Paul wants to cherish it all, and he makes a mental note to do just that in a minute.
Paul’s chest is much more covered in dark hair, and while he doesn’t necessarily like it on himself, maybe even is a bit self-conscious about it, Art’s fingers are already curling into it, pulling Paul closer to sneak kisses onto his jaw and neck. Paul’s cock wobbles heavily, helplessly hard between them, tenting his underwear, and he really needs something to happen in that department soon lest he’s driven insane by all this want. And so he wrestles out of his underpants, moves to sit back against the headboard of the bed, his pillow propped behind his back, and kind of guides one of Art’s hands between his legs. Art is desperately willing to follow wherever Paul leads.
“Paul, I…want to…” Art motions to Paul’s crotch, and leans over it, his mouth dangerously close to it, and Paul’s head starts spinning. “Can I?” Art asks, only a small trace of awkwardness, masked by barely concealed excitement. Paul’s voice seems to have stopped working in the last few minutes, but he’d be mad to come this far and decline, so he can only nod in agreement. Artie definitely can, whatever he’s planning. Paul is in no condition to stop any of it, nor does he want to.
It’s the softest, yet most exhilarating thing that has ever happened to Paul when Art creeps closer and finally, with warm breath sweeping over him, takes Paul’s member into his mouth. Paul is positively dying. It’s not as if this sort of thing hasn’t previously happened with rather daring girls he has dated, but this is his childhood friend doing stuff with his tongue that is out of this world. Paul fists one hand, knuckles white, into the bed sheets, and can’t help but bring the other up to rake through Art’s curls, gently moving along with the bobbing of Art’s head as Art is going down on him. But when Art is sucking on a particularly sensitive spot just under the head of his cock, and the pressure is just right, he grips Art’s hair harder, and gives little tugs, steering Art in the direction of even more just right.
Paul closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the wall behind the bed, and Art moans while he tries to swallow Paul’s dick even further down, saliva everywhere, Art’s hand moving up and down along Paul’s shaft in the same rhythm as his mouth closing on the sensitive head. Paul knows he’s not going to last long, his balls already starting to contract in a way that would be painful if it wasn’t so deliciously hot.
When Art starts tonguing his slit and then gives some particular attention to the earlier sensitive spot, Paul feels his blood starting to pound in his ears and his breathing quickens, his chest rising and falling frantically, a familiar flutter rising in his lower body. It feels like all the air he’s breathing in is flowing to one point in particular, somewhere in the middle between his hipbones, and then he’s only got a few breaths left like this, the pressure in his lower belly building and building until it overflows. “Art,” he calls out. “I’m close, I’m…” He opens his eyes in fair warning.
Art spreads a hand on top of Paul’s stomach, gently pushing down on it, the other hand still curled around Paul’s dick, his mouth leaving it with a soft pop. He’s finishing Paul off with a handjob, and Art turns his head to look at Paul from under his eyelashes, a slight smirk playing around the corners of his mouth.
Paul moans, momentarily undecided if he wants to close his eyes and let his orgasm consume him with colourful spots appearing behind his eyelids, or if he wants to keep looking at Art as he comes. In the end his eyes remain open when the last wall in his mind crumbles, when he lets go completely and comes in thick, hot spurts on his own stomach, his cock still pulsing in Art’s hand as his release is washing over him. Art keeps looking like he’s studying both the scene before him as well as the expression on Paul’s face with what looks like a mix of smugness and something else, something akin to greed, and Paul does have to close his eyes for just a moment then, removing his hand from where it was fisted in Art’s hair to wipe some sweat off his forehead and temple.
When he opens them again, Art, without qualms it seems, looks at some of Paul’s spunk on his fingers, and if Paul’s face wasn’t already flushed, it is turning a deeper shade of red now. “Give me two seconds,” he tells Art, trying to get his breathing to normalize again and the blur is in his head to clear, but Art is wholly impatient. “Paul, that was so...Fuck, I really need to come,” Art presses, and before Paul’s mind can catch up with what’s happening, Art is pulling the waistband of his boxers down and takes matters in his own hands. He’s tugging three, four times, his dick swollen and an angry shade of red between his fingers. Paul does make a valiant attempt to help, reaches out to fondle Art’s balls, but he’s not fast enough, Art coming hotly with his head thrown back, coating Paul’s belly in a second layer of come.
Then it’s over, and when Art moves to lie down next to him, Paul is at a loss for words. “Well, that was ummm…,” Art begins, and Paul, inarticulately, only manages to offer a “yeah,” when he reaches for some tissues on the nightstand. They both retreat to their own respective thoughts after that, and Paul’s mind is twisting and turning as he’s wiping himself down, trying to grasp the enormity of what just happened.
The silence stretches, perhaps a bit too long, and by the time Paul turns his head to look at Art, also studying him again, sadness has returned to Art’s eyes. “Artie?” Paul tries, unsure of whether he can take it if Art is going to try and downplay the events that have just transpired.
“I can see the wheels turning in your head, Paul,” Art says instead. He pauses, biting the inside of one cheek, which forms a dimple on the outside, and Paul has to refrain from poking his finger in it. “Do you regret it?”
“What? No, Artie,” Paul counters, a little shocked that this is how he came across. “You know I tend to overanalyze things, and I’m uh…processing. But I don’t regret this.” He leans closer to press a kiss on Art’s shoulder. “I just didn’t think this was how the night was going to go.”
Art is reassured a bit. He smiles. “Yeah, okay, fair enough. Neither did I.”
“The best I hoped for is that I’d get to apologise and that you wouldn’t push me out of the bed for being an ass for the past few weeks.”
Art starts laughing. “You know, I thought about that but then again I like that ass of yours.” Art then clamps his mouth shut as if he’s just told Paul a secret he was never supposed to spill.
“Are you…” Paul begins, but he catches himself in time, because it’s too direct of a question, so he needs another approach. “Have you…been liking it…for long?” These words are out before he realises they aren’t much less direct , though.
Art knows him long enough to know what Paul is asking. Paul will admit that when they met as kids and later, in their teens, there was always this undercurrent of something else in their relationship. They always were close in those days, but he still somehow completely missed the point in time when Art stopped looking at his math homework and started looking at other people’s asses, and particularly those of members of the same sex, including Paul’s. It might have been during their college years, but if this already started during high school, he should have known. He likes to think he knew everything there was to know about Art in those days, and it isn’t too great of a feeling being proven wrong about something so inherently vital, about something that carries so much weight.
“For a while,” Art, in turn, admits, and Paul has to know, has to hear Art say where exactly Paul started to fit in the equation, somehow. So when Paul continues with “And was mine…I mean, did you…?” Art’s hand comes to rest on top of his, and he’s lacing their fingers together, a gesture so gentle and soft that Paul’s heart is dangerously close to swelling to twice its size.
“Are you asking me whether you’re the first man I’ve been with?” Art questions silently.
Paul can’t tear his gaze away from their entwined fingers. He nods, not trusting his voice to speak out.
“You’re not,” Art says. Even though his tone somehow carries a soothing timbre meant to soften the blow for Paul, and he squeezes Paul’s hand in reassurance, Paul feels unmistakably jealous, angry at everyone and himself in particular that he was too invested in other, trivial, things to notice Art’s world shifting. Colour drains from his face.
“But I wanted you to be,” Art says, offering a small smile to Paul. “I just didn’t think you had that same…uh…inclination.”
“Until about an hour ago, I didn’t know I had either?”
Art’s smile falters. “So does that mean you’re not? You know?”
Paul honestly doesn’t know how to answer that question. “Don’t ask me to define it yet, Artie,” he says, looking up at his friend. “I don’t think I can do that. I’m still trying to process what happened tonight.”
“Was this a one-time thing?” Art asks, insecurity and fear laced throughout his words, spoken aloud with a certain reluctance, a certain adversity to hearing the answer.
This time it’s Paul who squeezes Art’s hand. “God, I hope not,” he says, looking at Art encouragingly, a small wiggle rippling through his eyebrows. The corners of Art’s mouth rise so high and wide that Paul expects Art’s face to split in about a second, but he can’t help smiling back like a lunatic.
“So,” Art says, the teasing edge returned in his voice. “Tell me again about how you loved snuggling with me last time.”
Paul scoffs, unable to hide a grin blooming on his face. “If you don’t shut up I’m going to have to go downstairs and request a separate room.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Watch me!” Paul says, but the only thing that Art is watching is Paul closing the distance between them again to initiate another kiss.
The next morning, Paul would have liked to say that the previous night was once more one of the best nights of sleep he’s ever had, but it is just not. Art and he are awake for two long periods of time, during the first of which things get so heated that this time it is Paul who ends up with Art’s dick in his mouth after keeping his promise of paying proper attention to Art’s upper body. And well, since that had been the first time he had ever fellated someone, he prides himself in being able to make Art curse so loudly and so much more frequent in the course of fifteen minutes than Paul had ever heard Art utter profanities in the entire thirteen years of knowing the guy.
Afterwards, they do manage to catch a bit of sleep, all spooned up, but when Paul cracks one eye open because he has the unfortunate habit of having to pee in the middle of the night, he finds that Art, slumbering behind him with his face in the crook of Paul’s neck, is already awake too. After Paul’s bathroom visit, they just lie in bed, facing each other, talking about anything and nothing in particular, a conversation disrupted occasionally by a chaste kiss and a gentle caress. Paul is happy to discover that, despite the now added romantic and sexual ingredient to the tangy dish that their relationship had always been, it is just as easy, just as familiar to interact with Art as it has been since the first time they laid eyes on each other in the back of the theatre. Paul reckons this one night has given him enough material to write songs for years to come.
When daylight starts creeping through a crack in the curtains, and bathes the room in a golden light, Paul wakes up, feeling tired as hell from the perpetual lack of sleep, but for once that doesn’t deter him from being in a good mood. He does crave a cigarette, and slips out of the bed and into his jeans and t-shirt without waking up Art, whose one leg sticking out from under the sheets he finds awfully cute. When did he become such a horrible sap?
Paul writes a quick note and leaves it on his pillow for Art to find when he wakes up. He doesn't want Art to think he changed his mind in the middle of the night, panicked and then ran.
The chill of early morning does help to drive some of the tiredness away. Paul walks along the parking lot in front of the hotel, while he fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it quickly, the gravel under his shoes crunching like the piece of toast for breakfast he’s already in the mood for. The first drag tickles his throat, and his mind is soon drifting to Artie who was doing other things with his throat last night, and Paul finds he’s suddenly in a hurry to finish his smoke so he can go back up to the room to kiss Art awake.
When he’s about to extinguish his cigarette, a familiar figure passes through the front entrance of the hotel. It’s cigarette guy, seemingly having the same need of a smoke before breakfast, reaching for a lighter in his trousers. Paul figures both Art and him owe the guy a lot; this mix-up led to some very interesting developments after all. He throws his own cigarette butt away and cautiously walks up to the guy, whose eyes widen slightly when he sees Paul approaching.
“Hey, um…what’s your name?” Paul says, but he doesn’t let the guy answer first. “Listen, I have to thank you.”
“Mark. And you’re…welcome?” the guy hesitantly replies, the intonation of the last word rising like it’s a question he’s asking Paul in return.
“Yeah, you don’t have to worry about the one bed thing. It’s really okay,” Paul says, careful not to give away too many details. But he doesn’t want Mark to come up to them, handing them a key with a look in his eye like he’s terrified he’s going to get punched by one or both of them or even get fired from the job. “In fact…” Paul begins, but he isn’t sure how to ask for a one-bed room again for the last night of the tour leg without revealing the intentions behind it.
Mark chuckles in relief. “Oh, thanks. I mean I wasn’t sure what was going on when Mr. Garfunkel asked for a room with only one bed, and I figured…”
Paul blinks a few times and holds up a hand, his mind looking for confirmation that he heard it right, his eyebrows raised so high they almost reach his hairline. “Wait. Art asked you for the one bed?”
“Well, yeah, he did, but I thought the request came from the both of you. That it was a joint decision. Um. You know?” Mark looks at Paul, completely confused, and probably already wondering if he said something wrong.
Paul lets his hand fall back down. “Excuse me, Mark,” he says, and then leaves the poor guy standing in the parking lot, while he disappears through the entrance back into the hotel.
When lets himself back into their room, he hears the sounds of Art singing under his breath in the bathroom and water splashing in the sink. The door is half open, so he takes a peak and finds Art shaving in front of the bathroom cabinet mirror, clad only in his boxers, and funnily enough, a new pair of socks.
He uses “goodmorning sunshine” to announce his presence. “Oh, hey,” Art beams at him, followed by a splash as he’s shaking the razor blade in the water to remove the remnants of the shaving cream. Paul leans against the bathroom door and follows Art’s movements, enjoying the raspy sound of the blade scratching against Art’s skin, removing the blond sheen of stubble. Paul has seen and heard this before many times, even being present at the big moment of Art’s very first shave during their teenage years, just like Art was at his, but right now he finds the whole ritual entirely endearing. Paul vows to examine these rather quickly surfacing feelings of being completely gone for his friend later, when he’s had the chance to be alone for a while and when he can sort out his thoughts.
“Could have woken me up,” Art says, his chin held high in the air as he’s swiping the blade on a spot right above his Adam’s apple. “I could also use a cigarette.”
“Next time,” Paul says. He shifts on his feet. “You know, I just heard something very interesting.”
Art hums for him to continue.
“I ran into Mark.”
“Who’s Mark?” Art asks, but the way he stills the slide of the blade on the tip of his chin betrays the fact that Art knows damn well who Mark is.
“Oh, you are a sneaky bastard,” Paul says, raising one eyebrow, and Art is on the verge of flinching when he registers Paul’s amused tone of voice. “Mark…” Paul says, emphasizing the man’s name, “told me that you arranged for the one bed. Did you plan all this, Artie?”
Art runs the tap and removes the last bits of foam on his face with cold water. “I swear to you I only had something to do with last night’s sleeping arrangements,” he assures Paul, drops of water dripping on his neck and chest. “The first time really was an accident. But you were really happy the next morning, so I figured that I’d umm…accidentally try and cuddle with you again last night and hopefully that would do the trick to get rid of your bad mood.” Art’s face sheepishly reappears from behind the towel he used to dry his face with.
Paul, meanwhile, throws his hands up from where he’s standing in the doorway. “God,” he says, “why are you so idiotically endearing?” The next thing he knows, he’s crowding into Art’s space and kisses him sweetly, his backside against the sink cabinet and his arms around the warm skin of Art’s waist. If his own stubble is putting a bit of razor burn on Art’s freshly shaven cheeks and chin, he’s not entirely sorry, though.
“So I assume it worked then?” Art mumbles against his mouth, the smile audible in his words.
“Oh, it worked alright,” Paul half-whispers back. “And you didn’t even have to do it ‘accidentally’, would you look at that.” He brings one hand up to Art’s face, and rubs his thumb over the soft curve of Art’s cheek. “Thank you for putting up with my bad moods,” he adds.
Art pushes his face further into Paul’s palm and angles his head to trap Paul’s hand between his face and his shoulder. “I honestly don’t know why I keep doing that. Must be because you’re even more, what was it, idiotically endearing than I am,” Art says with a grin, and Paul is barely a stone’s throw away from uttering an impromptu love declaration he’s not yet entirely ready for.
Their newly-found success as a musical duo means for one thing they get to stay in hotels that have room service options. It’s not like they splurge, but it is quite a nice thought that they can eat in the privacy of their bedroom, and a few dates back they even stayed an extra night in a place with an adjoining swimming pool, which they gratefully made use of.
They still have a bit of time to kill before their flight leaves just past noon, and having room service breakfast seems like a good idea. Art, meanwhile dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, sits on the side of the bed and picks up the horn to dial the number. He looks at the notepad in his hands, and dictates Paul’s earlier order into the receiver, followed by his own.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Order olive oil for me,” Paul says, sticking his head around the door of the bathroom, where he’s taking care of his own shave, and Art scrambles to repeat that to the person on the other end of the line, one of his eyebrows going up as he’s going along. “Instead of butter,” Paul offers additionally, as if that is going to make Art look less confused. It obviously doesn’t, and Paul has a hard time staving off another grin on his face.
When Art puts down the phone, the eyebrow raise remains.
“Since when do you eat olive oil on your toast?” he asks.
“Who says it’s for eating?” Paul deadpans. Art’s face turns an impossible shade of pink and his mouth opens and closes as he is getting flustered, and Paul just starts cackling, accidentally nicking himself with the razor blade but finding he’s just too on cloud nine to care.
As if by a miracle, they make it in time for their flight. When Paul and Art show up to soundcheck that afternoon, back to laughing and joking with each other but still making sure to keep things a bit subdued, so as not to give away what they’ve been up to the previous night and earlier that morning and raise any suspicions, they find people looking at them weirdly anyway. It’s like a collective breath that the whole crew in the room was holding gets released. Especially Mort looks relieved that his two charges are once again on speaking terms, and that Paul’s bad mood seems to have dissolved quicker than an ice cream melting on a hot summer’s day.
Paul tries not to look at Art too much for fear that he’ll burst out giggling and won’t be able to stop. When he announces he’s going to the bathroom, Art follows suit two minutes later, and they have just enough presence of mind to lock the door before they get into a heated make-out session right there in a stall of the university hall where they’re going to play in an hour or two.
Paul is still flattening his hair and Art is trying to iron his t-shirt with his hands when Mort gives them a suspicious side-eye afterwards.
But that evening in Berkeley, California, their performance doesn’t suffer. Art’s harmony complements Paul’s in the way it always has, and carries Paul’s songs to perfection. Art stands a tad closer to Paul than he usually does, and Paul deliberately bumps into Art a bit more than he would on any other night, but they deliver a flawless show, and this goes a long way in alleviating any worries that the crew may have had about their emotionally charged non-interactions from the past few weeks.
They have a few drinks to celebrate, but manage to fend off any further invitations to frat parties after the concert, eager to return to their room. Mort nods his head empathically when they explain just how "tired” they are.
Art quickly removes his hand from where he was holding it on the small of Paul’s back when they see cigarette guy – Mark – out front talking with the Holiday Inn staff member. This time, when Mark sees the two of them approaching, he tentatively smiles at them, and dangles a key in front of his face.
“Two beds, gentlemen,” he proudly says when they are within earshot. If he notices both of Paul’s and Art’s faces fall, he does a damn good job of pretending he didn’t.
“Uh yeah, thank you so much,” Art manages as he takes the key from Mark’s hand, a fake smile plastered on his face. He throws a quick glance in Paul’s direction, beckoning Paul to follow him inside. Paul also shoots Mark a smile, but he is already thinking about how he would definitely be willing to give up another night of sleep to climb into a single bed with Art.
Just as they’ve turned their backs to Mark and are about to go through the door, Mark calls out from behind them, and Paul turns his head to look. “Enjoy it anyway,” Mark says, and Paul could be mistaken, but it looks as if Mark is winking at him.
It’s quite the adventure going up to their room, because on basically every floor of the stairwell, Paul gets shoved against the wall or has the railing pressing uncomfortably in his back as Art is kissing him, Art’s hands frantically roaming everywhere, fisting in Paul’s clothes and raking through his hair. But Paul is taking things quite in stride, already fumbling with Art’s belt buckle and cursing when it’s not opening immediately, when they’re only on the landing between the third and fourth floor, and they probably have a few more to go from the looks of it. “Wait….wait, shhh, be quiet,” Art whispers urgently, his tongue still half stuck in Paul’s mouth, but he’s panting horribly loudly as well and neither of them can stop giggling when they let go of each other’s faces long enough to take a couple of much needed breaths.
Paul would rather not have the whole hotel waking up to find two half-drunk idiots humping each other in the stairwell, so eventually he tears his mouth away from Art’s and grabs Art’s hand, pulling him further up the stairs. “What floor?” he asks.
“Six,” Art breathes heavily, and then turns the key over in his hand. “Typical,” he adds. “We’re in room number 69.”
Paul laughs. “Come on,” he tells Art eagerly.
When they finally make it to the right floor and locate their room, it’s Paul who has to fiddle with the key in the lock, while Art is behind him, too busy losing all sense of the concept of personal space, one of his hands warm on Paul’s neck. They stumble into the room, barely managing to flip on the light switch and close the door behind them, and just when Art is turning to back Paul up against the door again in frenzied eagerness to resume kissing, Paul notices the beds from the corners of his eyes.
There are indeed two beds, but they’re…they have…"Art…Artie, wait,” he blurts, and Art pulls back a little, searching Paul’s face for any sign of non-consensuality. “Tell me,” Paul says, “that what I’m feeling in your pants is actually a roll of quarters.” His eyes must twinkle, because Art looks thoroughly confused.
“What?” Art asks.
“Look at the beds,” Paul points out, and Art turns, peering in the direction of the headboards, opening his mouth to protest that he doesn’t see anything, but then he notices the coin boxes on the bedstands.
“They’re Magic Fingers?” he all but yells, and lets go of Paul to pat his trousers pockets, in search for the necessary coinage.
Art takes a few steps towards one of the beds, and then swirls on his heels, facing Paul again. “Mark,” he begins, “is a fucking genius.” Childish excitement takes over his features, and Paul is so, so infatuated with his friend, it’s ridiculous.
“That he is, Artie, he really is,” Paul assents, and pushes Art down on the bed, before he climbs on Art’s lap to finish what they started.
A week later, Mark gets a rather generous check in the mail. That same day, Mort calls him up saying he’s been promoted and gets a fixed position in the next part of the tour's road crew, compliments of Mr. Simon and Mr. Garfunkel, who were very satisfied with the services Mark provided for them.