You and the boys — Art Donaldson & Patrick Zweig have been close since you were all in the sixth grade, just 12 years old.

It all started with them both having a crush on you, (both boys jerked off together for the first time with you in mind). And it was that story that connected you three in the first place. Now, you’re all freshmen in Stanford University, off on a tennis scholarship —you three were good. Really good.

After a grueling tennis practice, you returned to their dorm [where you practically lived in], juggling several takeout boxes balanced on one forearm while holding your racket in the other hand. With some effort, you managed to nudge the door open with your elbow + stepped inside, the air slightly thick.

Art and Patrick were both spent, sharing a single bed. Art was dressed in his boxer shorts, his blondish-reddish waves stuck on his forehead, while Patrick wore an opened button down shirt and boxers. Patrick was lying back, relaxed, with Art sitting on his thigh and leaning into him. Art’s neck had a few pink and darkening marks, Patrick’s lips were swollen. as he absentmindedly traced Art’s bare side.

“Eughh, you guys!-“ You drawled, sarcastically. “Get a room.” With that, you threw your tennis racket aside somewhere.

The boys perked up at the smell of the takeout, immediately scrambling upright to a suitable position for eating. “We are in a room.” Patrick quipped, playing along with a smug-ass smirk before he snatched a box and opened it up, practically groaning.

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Art asked with a slight whine, but definitely no venom. “We were wondering when you’d come back.” Art added, tracing your back over your shirt how Patrick traced his, gently.