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“How was the study group?" Patrick asks from his bed without looking up from his textbook when he hears the key turn in the door, followed by the familiar steps of his roommate.
“Fine.” Art says curtly as he carries his bag to his side of the room.
“What's wrong?" Patrick asks automatically, used to his best friend immediately rattling off every detail of whatever small amount of time he spent without Patrick by his side.
“Nothing." The other boy says quickly, busying himself with unpacking his tennis bag into the laundry bin. He still won't look at Patrick, keeping his face towards the floor where it’s hidden under the brim of the baseball cap on his head.
Patrick thinks for a second on how to approach this- he knows Art like the back of his hand, knows he's upset about something. He watches the blonde boy's broad back, the way his tone legs bend, the way his hair looks perfectly messy under his- wait a minute.
“That’s my hat, fucker." Patrick lunges, pulling the hat off.
Art immediately tries to grab for it back, but not before the other boy sees his face.
“What the fuck." he says automatically, grabbing Art’s jaw to look closer, to make sure he's not still bleeding despite the red all over his face.
“Who did this to you?" Patrick asks, voice suddenly deadly serious.
The blonde jerks his head away. “Don’t worry about it."
Patrick is, in fact, worrying about it. “No, I’m not fucking around, Art. Tell me who did this.”
“It’s fine, Patrick.” He turns away and bends to look for a change of clothes under his bed, wincing slightly at some unseen injury.
“Was it that homophobic guy from Calc? That glared at you in the cafeteria the other day?”
“How do you even know about that?” His best friend mumbles. As if Patrick isn’t constantly in tune to the other boy-
“I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Stop. It doesn’t matter-“
“Why doesn't it matter? He beat the shit out of you-“
“Stop, Pat, please!” Art interrupts, falling onto the edge of the bed and burying his face in his hands. “It doesn't matter because he was right,” he mumbles.
Patrick’s anger deflates. Well, now he’s confused. “What? Right about what?"
The other boy doesn't answer, still hiding his face.
Patrick settles on his knees in front of his best friend, reaching for his hands, so gentle in a way he only ever is with Art.
“Hey. It's me. C’mon. What were they right about?" He wraps his hands around the other boys wrist. He doesn't try to pull them away from his face, instead using one finger to stroke the skin softly.
“You know what, Patrick.” Art finally whispers, still hiding his face.
The other boy’s breath catches. He certainly didn’t think he would be dealing with his best friend of multiple years coming out to him on a random Tuesday afternoon, but here he is.
He realizes he’s gone quiet when he hears an upset “I’m sorry, Pat, please-“
Hearing the desperation in the blonde’s voice feels like someone stuck a knife in Patrick’s stomach. And he has to pull it out, make his pain stop, except his pain is actually Art’s pain-
Without thinking, he leans forward and wraps his arms around the other boy’s stomach. Art immediately bends over and presses his face into Patrick’s shoulder, breathing heavy.
“Hey, it's okay. It's okay. Shhhh." Patrick presses a soft kiss to the side of his head, staying there long enough to feel the soft blonde hairs tickle his face.
“Are- are you mad?" Art chokes.
“No. Hey, no. Never. You know you can tell me anything in the world." Patrick stretches up to press another soft kiss to Art’s forehead. He can't help it, when the other boy looks so down and unlike himself, and he waits for Art to say something about it, to protest, but he doesn’t, just sags, relieved.
Patrick reaches up to brush away the tears under the other boys eyes, being careful to be as light as he can. Even with the blood, he's so-
“You're so beautiful." Patrick whispers softly before he can help himself.
“Shut the fuck up, Patrick." Art scoffs, but he's blushing slightly.
Or maybe that’s all the fucking blood on his face.
“C’mere, beautiful.” Patrick teases, pulling his best friend up. “Let me clean your stupid face."
Just like that, they’re back to Art and Patrick. Best friends. Nothing is going to change.
Upon entering the bathroom, Patrick discovers that most of the blood is simply from a nosebleed, but it’s all over his face and his neck. Patrick wipes his face as gently as possible with a cloth, then seems to give up and pulls off the bloody shirt.
“Get in the shower, fuckhead.”
To his surprise, Art makes no protest, simply bending down and pulling his jeans off. He leaves them in a pile on the floor and steps into the shower, turning it on so that steam billows through the room.
“Just want to see me naked, Zweig?” He jokes tiredly.
“Nothing I haven’t seen before. Rinse off so we can go to bed.”
Art climbs out a few minutes later, blood gone and hair slightly damp. Instead of getting in his own bed, he slides next to Patrick, who is lying sideways as he reads a book. Patrick doesn't even look up, so Art headbutts him until he gets the hint and moves his arms, eyes not straying from his page.
Art doesn't care. He tucks his face into the other boy’s chest, pressing their bodies together and closing his eyes as Patrick’s arms fall back down, around him this time. He exhales. This is what it felt like to be completely safe.
“Art.” Patrick says suddenly a few minutes later.
The blonde groans. He was almost asleep. “What, Pat?”
“You know there’s nothing wrong with you, right?” Patrick whispers softly, and the lamp turns off, so he must have put his book up.
Art hums, too tired to respond.
“I’m serious. That guy is a total tool. He doesn’t know a single thing about how incredible you are.” Patrick says quietly, arms tightening around his best friend unconsciously.
The other boy smiles as his eyes slip shut.
“Love you too, Zweig.”