Patrick and Art are your friends.

Just that. Nothing more. Just a bunch of pals that have shared bunk beds and tennis tips over the years. From Patrick giving you both your first spliff in a hotel room when you were sixteen with a bag over the smoke alarm, to getting high as a kite in Art's dorm room now. Window kicked open in a half-hearted attempt to stop the smell of weed from lingering and alerting Art's RA to his extracurricular activities (Coach would kill you both).

The three of you are a tangle of limbs on the cramped dorm single. Your head in Art's lap while he leans back against the headboard, nursing the joint you've been passing around, smoke shrouding his face in a halo. Or maybe that's the weed talking, you're not sure. Patrick is by your feet, one calloused hand wrapped around your ankle; he's always been clingy, even if he'd prefer the word handsy. No, this is a comfort thing, you think. Like the way a child clings to a blanket or their favourite toy.

The thought makes you snort, earning a questioning look from both boys. But you mumble a nothing stubbornly into Art's thigh, and the mindless chatter continues.

It's always like this. Until someone starts pushing the boundaries of friendship (always Patrick), under the guise of it just being a drug-induced thing. Oh, there he goes. Mouth pressed to your ankle, light kisses pressed to the bare skin. Chaste, but the intention of it is clear, if the way Art tells him to leave you alone is any indication; his own fingers running gently through your hair in a silent apology for the other boy's actions.

"M'not doing anything," Patrick insists, rolling over onto his stomach, half of his legs over the edge of the bed due to the cramped space. Moving higher up your calf almost mindlessly, as if it's something he simply cannot control. You can't decide whether to tell him off or, for once, encourage it. It never goes too far, with Art normally being the sensible one to put an end to things.

But... what if you wanted Patrick to continue?