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If there's one thing Patrick knows about Art, it's that he absolutely detests asking for help. He's wondered often if it's one of the few life lessons Art's Dad had time to instill in his young, impressionable son before he abandoned their family around his eighth birthday. It's all tied up in his idea of what it means to be a man and even though no one asked, Patrick and his eighteen years of life experience and his partial reading of the will to change by bell hooks which he admittedly only bought to try to get head from a girl in his English Lit course, thinks it's completely antiquated. So with his best friend's limitations in mind, Patrick asked Art on three separate occasions if he needed anything leading up to the day of Art's wisdom teeth removal surgery. And he insisted - I've got it covered, Patrick. Quit babying me, Patrick. Stop drinking my protein drinks without asking me first, Patrick.
If he didn't know for a fact that Art would melt down and then self-immolate and then combust if he said it, Patrick would tell him that these days, there are very few things he likes hearing more than his name in Art's mouth. That each letter feels safe tumbling out of it, cared for, warm and soft with the edges rounded off, right. He would say that helping out with his surgery is the least he can do, when Art has given him so much. Showed him what a true friend looks like - someone who will shit talk your rivals with you for hours on end and refresh their computer all night for tickets to see a band they don't even like for you, and bring you green grapes from the dining hall because they know they're your favorite. Shown him what it feels like to be lit on fire by just a brush of fingertips, a hand on a shoulder, a knee rested carelessly against another.
It's been a month since the hotel room when the girl of their dreams made them kiss like Barbie dolls and ever since, their relationship has been even more charged than usual. Every time they share a space it's like the energy alone could power a train. And even though Patrick has years of experience in willful ignorance when it comes to Art Donaldson under his belt, lately he's been out of his depth. He knows his friend, really knows him, so he knows how afraid he is of the parts of their friendship that they choose not to name, that Art has refused to allow them to name. For what it's worth, Patrick has a lot of shortcomings but being able to look himself directly in the eye in the mirror is not one of them.
That is why it's so hard for him not to say all of the things he is dying to say every night in their room when a sharp, deafening silence falls over them before they fall asleep. Things like when are we gonna talk about it and I'm dying, how do you not see that and how am I going to survive next year when you're miles and miles away and I still want you so much sometimes I can’t even breathe and other things that are guaranteed to make Art bolt before he even finishes speaking. But Patrick’s not afraid of it, not anymore. The way his stomach used to drop when he got a glimpse of the skin on Art's upper thighs or the crinkles at the edges of his eyes when he smiled used to terrify him.
Now, at least in the privacy of his own mind, he can call it what it is: love. He's sick in love with his best friend, plain and simple, and honestly, he can't even think of a time when he wasn’t. The no homo charade was necessary to get through boarding school but post-graduation, Patrick is looking forward to living his authentic, label-free, completely enthralled-with-his-girlfriend-but-not-at-all-disgusted-by-the-idea-of-the-scruff-of-a-man's-beard-against-his-neck-so-call-it-what-you-want-to-life. Not that Tashi has at all indicated that girlfriend is quite the right term for what they have going on, but whether she's his dominatrix or de facto tennis coach or out of this planet sexy drill sergeant, she is something to him, and that is definitely not nothing.
So something, in fact, that lately she’s taken to encouraging him to do the very thing that he cannot do, must never do, or risk the bolting and/or bursting into flames of one Art Donaldson. She’s on the phone, badgering him about it right now.
“He’s not gonna bolt.”
“Trust me, Tashi. I know you had his tongue down your throat fairly recently, but you don’t know him like I do. He will fucking bolt.”
“Oh my God, you're doing it right now!”
“Doing what?”
“You’re jealous!”
“I’m not jealous. I’m the one hooking up with you, not him. Why would I be jealous?”
“Because I kissed him.”
“Pfft. I kissed him too, remember?”
“I know. That’s what makes it so sweet.”
“I don’t get it. You and I are dating-“
“Talking-“
“Fine, talking. And by my assessment you seem to be pretty satisfied. So why are you trying to set me up with someone else?”
“Because I clocked the fuck out of you two the moment we met and all the silence and the yearning is killing me. It’s like you guys are trapped in an episode of The OC.”
“And it doesn’t…bother you?”
“Oh, please. You think I give a shit about you being into guys, too? And besides, at least you have good taste.”
A long beat of silence as Patrick breathes out a sigh of relief as quietly as he possibly can.
“Listen. I just don’t want you to miss your window. In a few months, Art will be off at college and you and I will be…whatever-“
A huge smile spreads across his face.
“...Whatever?”
“-And I just don’t want you to regret not saying what you need to say to him.”
“And what is that?”
“Whatever you need to say. God, you know what I mean, don’t you?”
“…Yeah, I do.”
Before he can continue, the Sidekick cell phone his mother bought him to try and bribe him into applying himself more in school starts blinking to tell him he has a call coming in on the other line. He recognizes the number immediately – it’s Art’s grandmother.
“Sorry, babe. Gotta take this.”
“Just promise you’ll think about it, okay?”
“I will. Swear.” He clicks over to the other line. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Maybourne.”
“Oh, honey. You know I told you to call me Winnie.”
"Sorry. Winnie. What can I do for you?"
"It's Artie, dear. Seems he had his wisdom teeth removed, and the dentist won't let him leave without a guardian."
"He tried to leave by himself?" He asks, panicked, as he starts flipping over every pillow and pile of clothes in sight in search of his keys. "He told me he had it taken care of."
"Well, you know how our Artie is about being a bother. I know you're probably busy with your studies but-"
"--I'm already out the door. Thanks for the heads up, Mrs.Ma---Winnie."
He can hear her sweet smile over the phone and it goes a long way in calming him a bit as he sprints down their dorm room hallway.
---
When Patrick bursts into Art's dentist's office he isn't sure what he's expecting to see, but Art on his stomach right there in the lobby, kicking his legs while he's hard at work solving a puzzle in a Highlights magazine is not it.
"Patty!" Magazine immediately abandoned, Art's up and lunging at him in no time. "God, I hate the dentist. This place blows," he mumbles into Patrick's collarbone. Overwhelmed, Patrick wraps his arms around him, seeking eye contact with the assistant at the front desk who is quietly muffling her laughter.
"We'll just need you to sign here and you two are good to go." He's able to wrestle one of his arms away from Art long enough to sign as she explains typical protocol. "He definitely knew he was supposed to have a chaperone take him home, but I think he was planning on taking a run for it when one of us wasn't looking. Anyway, glad you could make it out."
Patrick smiles sheepishly and helps Art get his coat back on as they head out to the car. "She's so mean, right?" Art shouts at Patrick and definitely believes that he is whispering. "Totally, man. Let's get out of here."
--
Art's an athlete so it's no surprise that he's strong but wrestling him into the passenger seat and getting a seatbelt around him is enough to leave Patrick dripping with sweat. He gets in the driver’s seat, blasts the AC, and turns to get a good look at him. He's an idiot with no foresight and no critical thinking skills to speak of who could have had something very bad happen to him today.
He smiles over at Patrick, sheepish, and ruffles his hair. Pat swallows and worries, for the billionth time, that this idiot is probably the love of his life.
"Why would you do that, dude? I asked if you needed help. Many, many times."
"I know, Pat. Don't yell at me, okay? Have you seen what a tooth looks like when they take it out of your skull? I made the doctor show me when I woke up and when I saw it I almost fucking threw up. So don't yell at me, please. I can't take it."
Patrick scoffs and takes off towards Taco Bell.
--
Back in their dorm room surrounded by crunch wrap supreme wrappers, Art retrieves a chunk of bloody gauze from his pocket and hands it to Patrick. "Oops, forgot one." He grabs it and disposes it without another word. He plops down next to him at the foot of his bed and Art immediately leans over to rest his head on his shoulder.
"So, how long do you think you're gonna be loopy from the meds?"
Art groggily rubs at his eye, then hiccups, twirling a piece of his blond hair around his finger. He's been growing it out lately and by now it's probably long enough to make a really pathetic looking ponytail. He would never tell him this, not even at gunpoint, but sometimes when Patrick gets a glimpse of it shimmering in the sunlight when they're out on the courts, it makes him a little weak in the knees.
"No idea what you're talking about. I'm normal style just like every other day."
"Sure you are, buddy."
"How did you find out where I was, anyway?"
"Your grandma called me. I still don't get it. Why wouldn't you just ask me to pick you up?"
Art sighs and scoots around as Patrick mirrors him, and now they're face to face. He leans forward and tugs on one of Patrick's curls and he doesn't even have the heart to swat him away.
"Because it's been so weird lately. And I don't know. I was just worried I would accidentally say something I really shouldn't say."
A beat of silence as Patrick swears he can hear all the blood swirling around in his body come to a screeching halt. What the hell does that mean?
"...something like what?"
"Patrick."
"Come on, man. We're best buds. We're supposed to tell each other everything. I told you about how I farted on my date with Maddy and tried to play it off like it was one of the waiters."
"I know. But mine is so much worse."
He drops his head in his hands, a total drama queen, as Patrick's heart thumps loudly in his chest.
"It's just really unlike you, is all I'm saying. And what do you mean it's been weird lately? Since when has it ever been weird between us?"
He goes all quiet, starts to bite at his nails.
In his tiniest, mousiest voice he squeaks it out. "You know since when."
He's looking everywhere but back at him and Patrick can't imagine looking anywhere else.
This conversation will kill him, he's sure of it. And Art, God. He's going all red with it. All the way up to the tips of his ears. Patrick thinks he's gonna be sick.
"...you haven't wanted to talk about it."
"And I still don't! I'm just on drugs and I can't make myself shut up. Shut up, Art. You weren't supposed to hear that!" Patrick giggles, grateful for the break in tension.
"I'm just saying...it was nice. That's all. It was nice and I wish you would let me tell you that when you weren't on drugs but you never would. Not in a million years."
Arts thinks for a moment. "No, I really wouldn't."
He starts to giggle and then he's full on laughing and in no time he's infected Patrick because he's doubled over in laughter, too. They both end up flat on their backs on the floor. Art takes a deep breath and rolls over to find himself right up close to the side of Patrick's face. Almost as close as he was on the night that he won't let them talk about.
He takes his pointer finger and traces the bridge of Patrick's nose, completely in awe. Patrick gulps, can't bring himself to say a single word. His throat has gone bone dry.
"I didn't want you to pick me up because....'cause I was worried I would tell you all about it. About the thing in my chest."
He points to his own chest, right there in the center of his warm, beating heart. "It hurts. God, it hurts so much sometimes. And I don't want you to know about it yet. Maybe I don't ever want you to know about it. I'm sorry. Shit, I'm so fucked up."
Patrick reaches out and palms his jaw, knowing he is completely fucked. Done for, long gone, will probably be thinking about this moment for the rest of his life and maybe even on his death bed. His chest aches with the raw truth of it, it stabs him in the ribs.
"You're not fucked up, Art. Not at all. I'm the one whose fucked up, man. You don't even know the half of it."
Art looks up at him, hopeful, maybe, and a little teary-eyed. The most beautiful crier he's ever seen when he does let him see it. If he's honest, he can't think of a time of day when Art isn't beautiful. And even if he weren't, he would probably still be fucked. But God, it's so unfair how beautiful he is. Art takes his breath away all the damn time and more than anything else, he wishes he lived in a world where he could just tell him.
"Do you have it, too?" He points to his chest again and Patrick just smiles.
"Yeah, buddy. Yeah, I do." Art smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. He sighs and leans back over to rest his head on Patrick's shoulder.
He's asleep in seconds and Patrick just stares at the ceiling, wondering how in the fuck he will ever recover from this.
---
After getting Art tucked in bed and even taking his contacts out for him, Patrick lies awake. He wouldn't wish any of this on his worst enemy.
He doesn't know how people just go about their lives - go to school, go to work, take their kids to karate class - when they're in love. When you're in love, it feels like the whole world should stop until you figure out what you're going to do about it. How is he supposed to carry on like everything's normal when one day some dorky blond kid tells you their name and the next, you realize that all of a sudden, the way they drink a glass of water makes you so damn happy you want to kill yourself? How can the whole world go on as normal, now that you know what you know and you can never unknow it?
Art snorts in his sleep and Patrick rolls over to look at him. He wonders when he'll ever get tired of looking at him. He fills to the brink with dread when he realizes that the answer is probably never. He sighs, miserable, and tries to get some sleep.
---
The next morning, Art groggily sniffs himself awake to the sight of Patrick standing over him with a glacier cherry Gatorade and a huge grin on his face.
"Good morning, sunshine." Art moans and tries to smother himself to death with a pillow before Patrick wrestles it away from him.
"Come on, man. Drink this so you can take some Advil. I know your mouth is killing you." He grunts, downs the Gatorade, and squints up at him.
"Do you remember anything about yesterday?"
"Dude, please do not torture me, okay? I've been through enough."
"I thought you would say that, so I took a little video to jog your memory."
He takes out his phone and shows Art a video of himself sitting in their bathroom sink singing Dancing Queen by ABBA at the top of his lungs. Art moans in agony over the sound of Patrick screaming laughing.
"Laugh it up, Patrick. I'll remember this when it's your turn."
Patrick settles and slumps down next to him. He pushes Art's hair back from his face and he's in so much pain that he lets him, but Patrick knows that whatever spell he was under yesterday has been broken.
"Do you really not remember anything at all from yesterday?"
Art thinks for a moment.
"All I remember is the doctor telling me to count down from ten and then waking up in the middle of the night on top of a bunch of Taco Bell hot sauce packets."
"My bad, I forgot to move those."
"...Hey, Pat?"
Patrick looks over at him and has the nerve to be hopeful - you know, like a fucking idiot.
"Thanks for taking care of me yesterday. Even though I don't remember any of it. I owe you, big time."
Patrick smiles as best he can, tries as hard as he can to swallow past it. Art is none the wiser.
"Anytime, man."
-