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"Ok." Tashi's voice broke the haze, shattering the dreamlike state.
Art's eyes fluttered open, met with Patrick's across from him. They connected the dots quickly, the reality setting in that they hadn't been kissing Tashi, as they'd both believed, but each other. Patrick pulled away from him abruptly, and Art mourned the loss of contact without knowing why. He didn't want to kiss his best friend. He didn't.
As Tashi bid them goodnight, Art sat in dumbfounded silence, reeling from the knowledge of what they'd just done. His mind was moving a million miles a minute, but the thought he settled on was what now? They got ready for bed in silence with as much space between them as they could manage in the small room. The answer to his question became increasingly evident: nothing at all.
They slept in the same bed that night as usual, two twin beds pushed together, neither acknowledging the elephant in the room. Patrick reached over to turn off the light, glancing only briefly at Art with a complicated expression.
"Goodnight, Art." Patrick's words settled like a weighted blanket in the silent room, not suffocating but all encompassing, inescapable. Still comforting, somehow, the return to routine, as if Art's world hadn't just been turned upside down. Art rolled over, feigning exhaustion, and faced the wall.
"Sleep well." murmured Patrick, almost an afterthought. It was quiet enough that Art didn't really think he had been meant to hear it.
…
They always ended up wrapped around each other in the mornings, as if some part of their subconscious minds drew them together.
It was still mostly dark out, the very beginnings of the day barely able to be heard outside, but it was still long before they'd have to be awake. Art found his head nestled into the crook of Patrick's neck, tucked under his chin as Patrick's arms rested lazily around him. It had never been a thing, their casual physical affection, had always just felt so natural. It ached different this morning, though, like pressing into a fresh bruise. He could hear Patrick breathing softly above him, could feel his chest rise and fall with each inhale and exhale. Art couldn't take it. It was all too much, but at the same time he couldn't force himself to move. Whether he'd admit it to himself or not, it felt right. Felt like this was where he was supposed to be, where he belonged.
He pushed the thought aside, allowing himself to drift off again in the early morning light, wishing for all of his complicated feelings to be resolved by the time he woke up again. He fell back to sleep listening to the sound of Patrick's breathing.
…
The morning dawned bright and early, sunlight filtering through the closed curtains. Art reached over to hit the alarm, fumbling with the off button.
"Patrick." He mumbled. "Patrick, wake up."
He stretched across the bed, hand grasping in the air met with only empty sheets. They were cold. Art opened his eyes, confused.
"Patrick?" Silence. He wasn't there. Art sat up, bewildered and a little hurt. Of all the ways Patrick might be described, nobody that knew him would pick 'early riser'. He was the opposite of a morning person, and often, Art had to physically drag him out of bed. Patrick had a general distaste for any kind of schedule, and Art had never known him to be awake a single second before he absolutely needed to be, much less wake up early. It was unlike him. (But then, Art had been slowly realizing maybe there were things he didn't know about him.)
Running through all of the possibilities in his mind, he at least was able to assure himself that Patrick wouldn't have just left. Even if he wanted to get away from Art, this match was important to him, because Tashi was important to him. So where could he have gone?
As Art puzzled through it, he began to get ready for the day. He dug through the pile of clothes beside his bed in search of a clean shirt, coming up with nothing. He gave up, deciding Patrick could live with one less shirt, promising himself he would apologize later. As he made his way over to Patrick's equally unorganized side of the room, something caught his eye.
A note, on his bed stand, scrawled in Patrick's loopy cursive. Went for breakfast. Cya at match.
Art almost laughed. So. That's how it was going to be. Suddenly, he didn't feel so bad about stealing Patrick's shirt. He got ready quickly, not allowing himself to dwell on the fact that the shirt smelled like him.
…
Art didn't see Patrick until their game started. Art, always the punctual one, had arrived early to warm up, but his pre-game routine was almost entirely built around them together, and Patrick's absence felt like a gaping hole. They'd never skipped their warmup together, even for the most inconsequential matches, and Art found he didn't know what to do with himself when the other half of their Fire and Ice wasn't there. At least Fire could keep you warm, but by itself, what was Ice really even good for? It was just cold and hard, unyielding. Ice was nothing without Fire to balance it.
Patrick arrived barely five minutes before their match was set to start. Art tensed, not knowing how to greet him when everything that he thought he knew about how they were supposed to be had been snatched away. He wanted to feel angry, to demand an explanation, but really, he just felt lost.
Patrick didn't look at Art as he put down his bag, didn't even acknowledge him as he laid out his things. He didn't stretch before the game, at least not that Art saw, and some part of him wondered if it felt wrong for Patrick the same way it did for him, to prepare for a match separately rather than how they usually did, relying on each other for everything. Their whole relationship was tennis, and it had been since the day they met, and so tennis without Patrick—even just in his absence before the game—felt so bizarre and unfamiliar that it was almost as if it was separate, not the sport he knew and loved but something entirely different.
Tennis was part of Art, and Patrick was part of tennis. It made him feel unstable, removing what was in his mind a crucial part of the game, even if they were on opposite sides of the net.
Needless to say, Art didn't have a lot of confidence in this match. Distantly, he remembered Tashi's words, but they felt so far away even though they had been merely hours ago. Who got her number seemed so small of a question to him now. Was that what Patrick was playing for, today? What was Art playing for? Usually, he knew the answer.
"One minute." the umpire called.
Art brushed aside the thought as he picked up his racket and turned towards the court. The umpire droned through rules of the game and introductions that were met with meager cheers from the crowd.
Finally, Patrick acknowledged him, offering his hand out to Art in an attempt to seem sportsmanlike. So cordial, so impersonal. It felt wrong.
"Good luck, Patrick." Art tried, any effort to break the ice.
"Good luck, Art." Patrick's face was shielded, barricades up. His hand grasped Art's firmly, the calluses rough against his skin. Remnants of the same hand against Art's jaw and the back of his neck ghosted over him.
They took their respective places on the court. There was no avoiding confrontation now: they stood opposite each other, Patrick's eyes boring into Art's as he prepared to serve.
He bounced the ball one, two, three, four, serving as always in his peculiar way. The game had begun, and it heated up quickly. They sprinted back and forth across the court, volleying for such an unusual amount of time that it drew cheers from the otherwise unenergetic crowd. What was it that Tashi had said?
Good fucking tennis.
Art played like he had something to prove, like if he could win the match, Patrick would talk to him, they could just put it all in the past. He wasn't even sure he wanted to put the night in the past, longed to know what it really meant, but if it meant he got Patrick back he'd do it in a heartbeat.
There's a certain headspace, in tennis, and as they hit the ball back and forth, the crowd faded away. Nobody else mattered, at that moment. Art's senses narrowed in until it was just him, Patrick, and the ball. There was a message in each hit, and though to the spectators it seemed like the best game they'd ever played, it was devoid of their usual dynamic. This wasn't tennis for the love of it; this was tennis with the intent to win, and what was the point of even playing if in reality it wasn't the game that mattered but the outcome?
Their banter, the easy energy, the effortless connection that tethered them to each other as if by an invisible string, it was gone. Art was reaching out into darkness, searching for something, anything, waving his white fucking flag of surrender—radio silence.
Just static, the message lost before reaching its destination.
Patrick, are you there? Over.
Can you hear me? Over.
Patrick, what happened to us? Over.
Patrick, I miss you.
Art knew it didn't matter who won the game, but of course Patrick beat him. He always had, he always would, and for the longest time, Art couldn't puzzle out why, but that's just the way they were.
The locker room after the game offered no reprieve, devoid of other players to break the tension. They entered silently, not a word of congratulations or a simple 'good game'.
It was too much, Patrick's presence bearing down on him, his lack of emotion jarring. He couldn't be silent anymore, the delicate balance they had struck threatening to break.
"What…" Art hesitated. He never had, with Patrick, never had to think about what to say because it had always just been there on the tip of his tongue. "Are we going to talk about it?"
"What is there to talk about?" Patrick turned, tugging off his shirt and pulling a clean one from his bag. The movement was practiced, easy, but Art had known him for too long. The tension in his body was clear, and if that wasn't the heart of it, Art didn't know what was. They knew each other better than they really knew themselves.
"You're just going to act like nothing happened?"
Patrick sank down onto the bench, facing him. He still didn't look up, eyes determinedly pointed downwards as he wrung the sweat out of the shirt he had taken off. In the quiet of the room, the sound was audible, but it only underscored his lack of response.
Art waited, the drip, drip, drip the only thing filling the silence.
Finally, Patrick exhaled. "What else is there to do?" He didn't direct it at Art, standing across from him, but at the ground, like he was addressing the room rather than his friend.
"You can't pretend it doesn't change anything, Patrick, because clearly," Art gestured helplessly between them, "It fucking does."
Patrick looked up at him, finally meeting his eyes. His eyes were questioning, begging Art to understand.
"I've had plenty of practice pretending, Art." He dropped his gaze again. "More than you know."
Art sucked in a breath, the whoosh of air deafening in the empty room. This was it. This was the culmination of everything that had gone unsaid, everything that they'd held back, except now it was out there. Now it was no longer unsaid, and Art didn't know what to do with it. He knew whatever happened next was in his hands, that Patrick had just offered him his heart and now it was his turn. The ball was in his court, so to speak. He wished he could hit it back, deflect, but for once it wasn't about tennis. This was real life, and Art had to face it, finally.
"More than I know?" Art's voice was raw, and it came out weaker than he wanted it to be.
"Don't do that, Art. Don't make me spell it out for you." Patrick hung his head. Art had never seen him like this, so vulnerable. He was usually the strong one, speaking for the both of them.
"Then it did…mean something?" He had to know, had to have confirmation that it wasn't all in his head. They were still skirting around it, and Art didn't want to be the first to say it if he had somehow wildly misjudged.
Patrick's head snapped up, fire reignited in his eyes. He closed the short distance between them, just shy of being too close for comfort.
"Of course it fucking means something, Art. It all fucking means something." Means something. Not meant something. Means something, now, as Patrick's breath came quicker, in short puffs against Art's face. Patrick's eyes bored into him, through him, merely inches from his face.
"I know you're not stupid, Art." It was softer, closer to the Patrick he knew. His eyes, somewhere between blue and green and gray, irises ringed with yellow, were inescapable. "The real question, I think, is what it means to you."
It wasn't a question, directly, but Art could hear the meaning under his words. He could see it on his face, imploring, looking for some sign that Art felt it, too.
"I don't know, Patrick. I don't know. All I know is I made out with my best friend and now he won't talk to me, and I really fucking miss him. And I think he's avoiding me because he felt something and he doesn't want to make it weird, but this is fucking weird." Art felt the energy drain out of him as he cut to the heart of the problem.
"You're my best friend, Patrick," He added quietly, no longer looking into his eyes. Art didn't think he was strong enough to admit this to his face. "And I don't want to lose you. But I felt something too, and I'm scared it's going to change things."
Art's words hung in the air between them. This was the tipping point, the precipice, the point of no return. Whatever happened next, there was no turning back. Whatever was said couldn't be undone.
"Art…" Patrick whispered. The rough edge of his fingers brushed Art's jaw, tilting his head up and forcing him to meet his gaze. "Can I…?"
Art nodded quickly. He had to know. Was it really just Tashi that had drawn them together? Or had some part of them known, recognized the map of their bodies even with their eyes closed? Was Tashi simply the catalyst, the loose end that undid their careful facade, their years worth of stolen glances and repressed feelings?
Patrick leaned in slowly, carefully pressing his lips to Art's like he was afraid to break him. It was sweeter now, less wild than before. Patrick was gentle, so gentle as he brought his hand to rest on the back of Art's head, hand winding into the hair on the nape of his neck, pulling him closer still. He would give up breathing if it meant he got this instead, he thought. He felt more alive than he'd ever been. Art leaned into him, surrendering to the kiss and to Patrick, but instead of deepening the kiss, Patrick pulled Art back by the grip on his hair, earning a soft sound of protest.
Patrick rested his forehead against Art's, their breath mingling. "Was that ok?" He asked, uncertain.
"Yeah, it was ok, I guess." Art smiled.
"Cheeky bastard." A grin split Patrick's face, eyes crinkling.
And oh. There he was. The beautiful boy that Art knew was back, the mischievous smile returned. Except now, he knew what that smile felt like against his lips, and he didn't ever want to let it go. Patrick paused suddenly, looking up at Art.
"Are you wearing my shirt?" He regarded him, slightly incredulous.
"Mm." Art nudged against Patrick's jaw, messy curls still damp with sweat. "Liked it. Smells like you."
There was only one way to describe the way Patrick looked at him, and maybe it was too dangerous, too much, too soon, but they had always loved each other. It was just a different kind of love, in his expression now. Patrick looked at him like he would've given him the moon and all of the stars.
"C'mere."
Art happily obliged, thinking in the back of his mind that he'd do anything Patrick asked. He didn't hold back this time, but he caught more teeth than lips as he smiled into the kiss. Patrick's hands carded through his hair, crushing their mouths together, drinking him in, and it still wasn't enough. He wanted to be closer, impossibly closer, wanted more and more and more and more.
In a moment of sudden clarity, he could see it so clearly: they completed each other. They had always been inevitable.