Work Text:
09.02 17:22 < 4got 2 tell u. at stanford rn to see tash >
— — —
10.02 14:27 < gunna have to cancel tnite sorry man love u >
10.02 22:48 < skip ur lectures tmrw and come see me b4 I go >
— — —
11.02 21:39 < hey man. srry I missed u. link next time? >
— — —
12.02 18.58 < miss u man >
12.02 23:57 < bb i miss u wyd?? >
— — —
13.02 11:27 < dick >
13.02 13.46 < tashi tells me ur super busy w exams, hope ur ok >
13.02 17.02 < dude text me back >
— — —
14.02 02.45 < r u mad at me??? >
14.02 03.15 < artie >
14.02 03:32 < babe text me back >
14.02 03.41 < miss u :((( >
14.02 05.12 < u better have a good reason for ignoring me >
14.02 11:31 < happy valentines or whatevr >
14:02 23:09 < love u man >
— — —
17.02 15:21 < coming back 2 stanford tmrw>
17.02 15.22 < swear u will have me 4 the whole weekend >
17.02 15.23 < tash is busy so promise itll b u n me like always >
— — —
18.02 11.04 < just got to tashis >
18.02 11:05 < will say hi then come to urs?????? >
— — —
When Patrick knocks on the door of Art’s dorm, he’s not expecting it to be opened by his roommate - some blonde guy who’s pre-med or something, Patrick’s only spoken to him once before - and so he falters a little as he asks.
“Is Art about?”
The guy - Will, maybe? - frowns, his gaze flickering back into the room, at Art’s neatly made bed.
“Um… no. He’s gone.”
Patrick raises an eyebrow, something about Will’s tone making him suddenly very uncertain.
“Gone?”
His anxiety must bleed through, because Will’s quick to shake his head.
“Not like - gone gone, not like dropped out gone. Nah - he came back a couple of days ago after training and packed a bag, just said he was going away for a bit.”
“What? Going where?” The fact that Art hasn’t just dropped out and disappeared entirely is a relief, even though Patrick could have answered that one by himself - Art’s stuff is still littered around the place, clothes draped over the back of his desk chair, a t-shirt that definitely belonged to Patrick folded up on his pillow, a framed photo of the two of them - the victory photo of them kissing their trophies after winning the junior doubles. It’s Patrick’s second favourite photo of them, the first being a polaroid of them at 16, ridiculously drunk in Spain on holiday with Patrick’s parents. Patrick’s shirtless, and Art’s wearing the green and white striped one (the one that neither of them could remember who it belonged to first) and it’s unbuttoned, showing off his chest. They’re both golden from the sun, Patrick’s arm alung around Art’s shoulders, and Art’s cheek pressed against his. They’re both beaming, completely carefree and happy, and it’s lived in his wallet ever since then. He’s not sure Art even remembers it exists, but Patrick does, every day. Art’s tennis bag is in the corner, his racquet leaning against it, but instead of Patrick’s being next to it, there’s a pair of trainers that aren’t his, a pile of anatomy books, a white lab-coat. It’s Art’s stuff, Art’s room, but there’s no longer space for Patrick. This isn’t the Academy, not anymore.
Will shrugs in answer to his question, still holding onto the door.
“I don’t know, I mean- I didn’t ask.? That was Wednesday, he’s not been back.”
Shit.
“Thanks man… hey - can you get him to call me when he comes back?” he asks, pulling back away, and Will nods.
“Sure man.”
He goes back to Tashi’s, his bag slung over his shoulder still. She’d kicked him out once already, told him to go bother Art instead of her for a bit, but where normally he’d be in trouble for going back to her, this is different.
She opens the door immediately, giving him an unimpressed look.
“I told you—“
“— Art’s left town.”
Her expression drops, one of genuine surprise for a moment before she raises an eyebrow at him, carefully regaining her composure.
“What?”
“Fuck knows, I just went to his and his roommate says he fucked off somewhere on Wednesday, packed a bag and everything.”
Tashi frowns, her eyebrows knitting in uncertainty.
“He didn’t mention anything to me… but I guess we haven’t really spoken lately.”
It’s Patrick’s turn to raise an eyebrow at her. “I thought you two were friends?”
She bites her lip, and it’s clear that there’s something going on here. Something Patrick doesn’t know about.
“I mean… I guess…? We don’t - I don’t really talk to him all that much.” She looks a little guilty, and Patrick feels something akin to anger flare in his veins.
“What?”
“He’s just - he’s just so clearly head over heels for both of us and it’s a little bit annoying, so I -“ she hesitates, then sighs. “I've been avoiding him. Not all the time, just while he’s been so stressed about his exams.”
Patrick feels a little bit like he’s been slapped. He’s genuinely surprised by this, because as far as he knew, Tashi and Art had become legitimate friends since coming to Stanford. Art certainly seemed to think so, and that was what had been most reassuring while Patrick was away on tour, the knowledge that Art had someone.
Clearly he was wrong.
“Fucking - what the fuck? Art’s not - he’s not annoying, he’s got like no fucking friends and you’re one of the few people he actually likes and trusts. I thought you liked him? I thought you were friends?”
She has the decency to look even more guilty at that. It’s a strange look on her, because Tashi Duncan doesn’t do guilt. She doesn’t even do uncertainty – she doesn’t second guess herself, and she doesn’t have space for regret. It’s nice to know, when it comes to them at least, that might not always be true.
Or maybe just when it comes to him .
“I do like him. But come on, Patrick - I can’t be his only friend I’ve got my own shit to do, I can’t put up with him 24/7.”
Patrick feels his fists clench, the familiar swell of needing to protect Art coursing through him, red hot as it prickles at the tips of his fingers.
“No fucking shit, but you gotta spend some time with him! Have you even seen him once lately?”
Slowly, she shakes her head, and Patrick has to turn away from her.
Art isn’t like other people. He’s shy and he’s scared and he’s still not coping with being away from Patrick - it’s why he felt so guilty about not seeing him last time he’d come to Stanford. He’d comforted himself with the fact that at least he had Tashi to talk to, at least he had someone here with him at Stanford.
But no.
Tashi doesn’t talk to him, and apparently neither does Patrick.
And yeah, sure, it’s possible that Art’s disappearance has nothing to do with him. Maybe something had happened to Art’s grandmother or his parents and he’d had to go home, or maybe he’d been invited by some teammate to go home with them for the weekend, visit some fancy tennis club or something. But this was Art. He’d tell Patrick something like that, or at least he would have, back in the day. Guilt curdles in his gut as he realises that this almost definitely has something to do with him.
And he didn’t even fucking notice.
He pushes past Tashi into her room,sitting down heavily onto the bed and pulling out his phone.
— — —
18:02 11:59 < art???? >
18:02 12.02 < are u ok can u answer the phone please >
outgoing call: Art - no answer
outgoing call: Art - no answer
18.02 12:06 < answer the fucking phone donaldson >
18.02 12:07 < art. are you okay?? im worried about you >
18.02 12:07 < art baby m sorry i didht come see you last week. dick move frm me >
18.02 12:12 < can you answer the phone pls dont ignore me >
< what do u want??? > 12:14 18.02
18.02 12:14 < fucking hell art what is wrong with you??? where the fuck have you been??? r u ok??!???? >
outgoing call: Art - no answer
< im fine > 12:16 18.02
18.02 12:16 < can u answer my call pls then >
< cant rn > 12:16 18.02
< im fine > 12:17 18.02
18.02 12:17 < u sure?? cause u disappeared w out telling either me or tash >
< since when did I have to tell u everything > 12:18 18.02
18.02 12:18 < tf is up w u art??? y r u being such an asshole >
18.02 12:19 < art?? >
18.02 12:20 < im sorry >
18.02 12:22 < pls just txt me back >
18.02 12.25 < art seriously what the hell >
< fucking hell i said im fine pat > 12:37 18.02
< just fuck off > 12:39 18.02
18.02 12:40 < ??? >
18.02 12:41 < art man what the actual fuck whats gotten into you??? where are you im coming to see you >
< jesus > 12:43 18.02
< patrick can you just fuck off and leave me alone > 12:44 18.02
18.02 12:45 < k >
18:02 12:46 < fine. >
18.02 12.46 < we can talk when ur back >
— — —
Tashi has spent the last 50-something minutes perched behind Patrick on the bed, reading every message over his shoulder, and she flinches back as Patrick throws his phone across the room. They’ve hardly spoken a word as Patrick’s been texting, both confused by Art’s sudden hostility. None of this makes sense. None of this makes any sense, and it’s clear from the way that Patrick’s hunched over into himself, fists clenched as he stares at his phone on the rug, that he’s upset.
More upset than Tashi’s ever seen him.
“Have you ever fought before?” she asks softly, and Patrick shakes his head, slowly, stiffly. Because they haven’t.
In the seven years they’ve known one another now, they’ve never fought. They’ve argued over petty things - Patrick leaving his socks in the shower (why - that’s disgusting), Art too obsessively keeping Patrick’s stuff clean (back off man), Patrick smoking too much in their room, Art not believing in himself enough, Patrick bringing home too many girls, Tashi, Tashi, Tashi - but they’ve never fought like this. There’s never been any genuine anger between them, not like this, and Patrick has never felt so shut out by the person he’s closest to in the world
Because the thing about Patrick and Art is that they’ve always been like that. Lines blurred when it comes to defining their relationships. They’ve always been best friends, but they’ve always been more than that too.
And it’s clear that deep down, they’ve both always wanted more.
When they’d met at twelve, all those years ago, both just kids, it was clear to everyone that they’d be thick as thieves, because within a week of knowing one another, they already seemed as if they’d known each other all their lives. Art was shy, short and scrawny and far too nervous to talk to anyone, and Patrick was taller and bolder and overflowing with unearned confidence, dragging Art with him wherever he went. He forced Art to make friends, dragged him out of his shell, and together they grew and changed and moulded to fit together.
It didn’t take long, only a matter of months, before they were constantly touching. Patrick always had an arm slung over Art’s shoulders, a hand on his knee, on his back, never further than an arm's length away from him.
And it went further than that. In the sanctuary of their room, Patrick was always dragging Art in for hugs, flopping down on their beds next to him and slinging an arm around his waist, letting Art curl up against him when they’d watch movies on the shitty Dell laptop Patrick’s dad had bought him, and pulling him in closer when he’d inevitably drift off on his shoulder.
And slowly, that turned into sharing a bed, Art slipping in under Patrick’s covers when he had a nightmare or he couldn’t sleep, Patrick unashamedly clambering in next to Art whenever he wanted.
And eventually, that became their normal, and they pushed their beds together.
Sometimes they’d fall asleep apart from one another, but most nights Patrick dragged Art in, snaked a hand around his waist or shoulders and held onto him as Art got comfortable on his front, face tucked into Patrick’s side. Then they’d wake up tangled together, thighs trapped between thighs, arms wrapped around torsos, faces tucked into necks and chests and shoulders.
Of course, they’d never tell anyone, but the contact escaped, bleeding out from the privacy of their room into the rest of their lives because the truth was they couldn’t keep their hands off one another, not once that boundary had been broken.
Arms around shoulders turned into arms around waists, hands on thighs, in each other’s back pockets, fingers intertwined. There was never any question of it, they always sat next to each other, thighs pressed together, leaning on shoulders, touching, touching, touching.
They just couldn’t bear to be apart.
Soon enough Patrick was kissing Art on the face, on the hands, completely effortlessly comfortable with him. There were no boundaries there, not anymore. Art was Patrick’s, and Patrick was Art’s.
Not that they’d ever admit it.
And if that wasn’t enough for the rumours to spread about how Art and Patrick were fucking, the nicknames certainly were.
It started off pretty simple, turning Art into ‘Artie’, sometimes into ‘Arthur’ when he wanted to tease him (which only made Art grumble about how that wasn’t even his name), and… well… it just grew.
It started as a joke (or at least that’s what Patrick claimed). Art was a precious little angel, or a pretty boy attracting the ladies, or Patrick’s darling roommate or whatever stupid shit he could come up with, and somehow the more he did it, the worse it got. At some point Patrick stopped calling him those names to be a teasing jab, and had simply started calling him them.
And Art always answered.
It wasn’t too bad to start off with, he was ‘darling’, or ‘honey’, or ‘sweetie’, but this was Patrick Zweig.
Soon Art was ‘babe’, was ‘baby’, was ‘love’, or ‘sweetheart’, or even ‘baby boy’ when Patrick was feeling particularly soft. Art had fought it, of course he had, shoving at him or smacking him when Patrick got too into it, but at a certain point he’d just stopped, he’d just accepted it.
And so had everyone else.
Because this was them, they were Art and Patrick and they were just like that. No one else could get in the way, not even Tashi Duncan.
Or so they’d thought.
Well, maybe just Patrick had thought that.
Because this time Art seems genuinely upset, more upset than Patrick’s ever seen him (not directed at him at least) and there’s nothing he can do.
“What did I do?” he asks, his voice shaking. He’s always been a guy people either love or hate, more than willing to get into arguments over stupid things because he doesn’t care if he’s liked. He never has.
But this.
But Art…
Having Art upset with him is the worst feeling in the world.
He feels sick, shaky, like everything in his whole body is screaming out for his best friend, like he needs to see him and touch him and be with him to get the pain to stop.
There’s nothing he can do but sit and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
By the time evening falls, he’s bitten all of his nails down to the stubs, an anxious habit he’d kicked back when he was thirteen and realised girls didn’t like it when guys turned their fingers into gross bloody stumps. He’s paced Tashi’s room so much she’d finally told him go for a walk, and picked at the skin on his thumb until it had bled, dripping red onto his shirt.
He doesn’t text Art, as much as he desperately wants to, not until the evening, when it feels like he can’t breathe, like his heart has turned to stone in his chest.
Tashi sits on her bed, her legs spread for Patrick to curl up between them, to be cradled against her chest. It isn’t something they do, isn’t something they’d ever done, but it’s clear between the two that this is what they need. This is what Patrick needs.
“I want to text him again,” he whispers, pressing his cheek against the soft skin of Tashi’s bicep, her arms encircled around his chest.
“He told you to leave him alone.”
“Yeah I - I know… but I want to text him, I - I need to talk to him.” He stares at his open phone, at the screen of Art’s messages. “I can’t - Tashi I can’t have him be mad at me.”
She sighs, her chest rising and falling behind him, before she bends and presses a kiss to the top of his head.
“I know, I know. Why don’t you tell him that?”
It takes nearly ten minutes for Patrick to draft his message, his heart pounding as he tries, hands shaking. He’s never been scared to talk to Art before, because Art has always been his constant, his sanctuary, his safety. The person he can tell anything to. Art has always been the one person who’s never been upset with him, who’d always be there for him, and now he’s not.
Now Art’s upset.
And Patrick’s scared.
— — —
18.02 22:13 < hey man, i just wanted to say i really love you and i really care about you and i’m really worried about you. i know ur upset with me and whatever it is that ive done, im sorry, im really sorry, but i cant do this. i cant do u being mad at me. i need to know whats going on, i need you to talk to me art, whats up? im your best friend, im here for you to talk about whatevers bothering you even if its me being a massive dick. just talk to me. pls baby. >
< just got back to Stanford > 22:29. 18.02
18.02 22:30 < come to tashis room??? pls >
< k > 22:30 18.02
— — —
Ten minutes later, there’s a knock on the door.
Patrick’s quick to open it, and when he does, there is Art.
He looks pale and drawn, with purple bags under his eyes. His hair is sticking up at the back, like he’s slept somewhere awkward and his shirt is wrinkled, evidently with a few days wear.
Patrick doesn’t care.
He drags Art in for a hug, burying his nose in the hair on the side of his head.
“Art you scared me - fuck, I -“
But Art pushes him away, holds himself back at an arm's length.
“Scared you? Dude - you were fucking texting me like a jealous girlfriend,” he snaps, his face twisted into something sour, something bitter and angry that Patrick’s never seen on him before.
Patrick drops his hands to his sides, swallowing uncertainly.
“Dude - what? You stopped answering my texts and then you left without telling us, of course I was scared.” He says, and Art rolls his eyes.
“Yeah? So? I don’t have to tell you everything.”
Patrick feels a wave of irritation rush through him at Art’s obstinance. He’s never like this, never so sharp with him, and Patrick hates it.
“Yeah well, you should tell us some stuff! I came to see you, and you weren’t here! I deserve to know if you’re going somewhere.”
“Why?”
“Wh- what do you mean why? Because - because you’re my best buddy and I love you Art.” Patrick says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You fucking say that - but do you even give a fuck about me?” Art retaliates, and suddenly his cheeks are red with anger, eyes shining with unshed tears. He looks genuinely upset, genuinely hurt and genuinely angry. Patrick’s never seen Art like this before, and it’s devastating to have all this directed towards him.
“You - you said this wasn’t going to be a thing, that I was going to fucking be forgotten about, but I am - I have been Pat. You don’t - you don’t fucking care about me. You - you didn’t even tell me you were coming last time, and you didn’t even try and fucking see me when you were here, and I - I hate it Pat, I hate being left alone and forgotten and - I hate this.” He waves a hand towards the two of them, his meaning devastatingly clear. He hates their relationship. “I’m mad at you. Both of you, can you acknowledge that?”
Patrick feels like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over him, but he nods immediately, because this is Art and he’ll do anything for him. Always.
“I’m sorry.”
Art sighs, then pulls himself back away out of Patrick’s embrace, a hand on his shoulder as blue eyes meet deep greenish grey.
“You don’t even get what I’m mad about Pat - you, you just assume that everything’s fine until it’s not, and then whatever it is must not be important but this… this is important to me. It’s… you… I don’t want to be your second choice. I don’t want to be an afterthought and I am. Even if you don’t want me to be. And Tashi you just… you make it so clear that you don’t care. You act like you’re so much better than me and I know that you are but you make me feel so stupid and small and -“
“Art -“ Tashi steps forwards, holding out a placating hand, but he shakes his head.
“It’s not like you actually even care about me and you’re just shit at showing it - I know you think I’m annoying, I know you only even fucking talk to me because Patrick’s my friend, you couldn’t make it any fucking clearer.” He sniffles, bringing a hand to angrily scrub at his eyes. “I don’t want to be a second choice. I want - I want to matter.”
“Art, What? You do matter baby, you matter so much to me,” Patrick says quickly, but Art shakes his head.
“No I don’t. I obviously don’t. You only care about Tashi, you don’t care about me, not enough. Whatever I did, I - I’ll fix it.” His voice cracks then, and he sounds so wretched, so miserable, that Patrick’s heart breaks.
“Art…” he whispers, taking a step towards him. “Oh baby, no, no. That’s not true, you’re still my number one… you’re always my number one.”
Art looks at him then, his blue eyes pink with unshed tears, his cheeks red and splotchy with anger, and god Patrick wants nothing more than to sweep him into his arms and show him just how much he loves him.
“You forgot about me.”
It’s too much.
Patrick closes the gap between them, wraps his arms around Art and pulls him in, his lips finding his cheeks, his forehead, his chin, whatever he can kiss.
“Babe, Art, no. No. I’ve been - I’ve been a massive dick, just the biggest fucking asshole, I swear you didn’t do anything to deserve this, and I’m sorry, okay? You’re my best friend and I’ve been blowing you off but I’m sorry. I don’t mean it, I love you, I love you so much.” It’s true, it’s completely true. Because yes, he loves Tashi, but never to the exclusion of Art. It’s never even crossed his mind to consider the possibility that one day, he might have to choose one over the other, because he's always been able to have both. He needs them both, and he can't imagine his life without the pair of them in it. It breaks his heart to think that Art somehow doesn't know that, that he could ever, for a second, think that Patrick would just drop him in favour of his girlfriend - or anyone -, like he doesn't need Art the way he needs oxygen, like he's not walking around missing half of his heart anytime they're not together. He’s his everything, he’s always been his everything, and he can’t believe he let him think otherwise.
Art tolerates the kisses, still holding himself rigid and awkward in the embrace, but as Patrick’s words sink in, he relaxes against him, and Patrick knows he’s got through.
“Artie, baby, my darling,” he murmurs into his hair. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I forgot about you, I’m sorry I’ve made you feel like you’re not a priority, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. For everything. Where did you go? What - what happened?”
Art sinks deeper into his arms, tucking his face into the crook of Patrick’s neck.
“My grandma had a fall.” He breathes, almost too quiet for Patrick to hear. “I… I was angry with you and upset so I drove to see her… and then I didn’t want to come back… cause I was still just so angry.”
Patrick’s grip tightens around him, drawing Art in closer by his waist.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine.”
“Is sh-“
“Patrick.” Art cuts him off, there’s a shake to his voice, and his eyes are shining with the beginnings of tears that he’s clearly trying to bite back. “This isn’t about her. I - I need you to listen to me. This… this is important.”
Patrick feels a little bit like a caged animal, because he and Art don’t do serious. They never have. They’ve never had to, and this feels scary, it feels wrong.
“Okay.” It’s a little lame, but he’s not sure what to say, he’s still not entirely clear on what’s upset Art so much other than the fact he feels left out.
There’s a movement beside them and Tashi pulls away, snagging her hoodie from the chair as she goes. “You two need to figure this out,” she says firmly, one hand on the door. “Text me when you’re done.”
Patrick starts to pull away, but his gaze flickers instinctively - guiltily - back to Art. “Tash, you -”
She holds his gaze, communicating something that Art doesn’t understand, and then Patrick nods.
“Yeah, okay - um, I’ll text you.”
And then it’s just them.
“Art —”
“ — Patrick - “
Their voices overlap, and Art sighs, dropping his gaze to the floor.
“Whatever. Go with her. ‘S not like this is going anywhere. Just forget it.”
Patrick doesn’t like the resignation in his tone, doesn’t like the fact that Art seems so genuinely hurt, so he presses forwards, refuses to let him escape. Art has always had such an annoying habit of shutting down whenever anything’s the matter. He bottles it up, represses it inside a little box until he physically cannot hold it in any longer. God knows Patrick’s comforted him through enough panic attacks over the years. He never argues, never gets mean or passive aggressive or emotive, he just bites it all back until he breaks down, on the court, in the changing rooms, in their room, and shakes and cries as his emotions escape him in the only outlet they can and leave him shaking and sobbing and digging his nails into his palms. Art internalises everything, turns grievances into another reason to hate himself, he blames himself for other people’s wrongdoings and Patrick hates it. He hates it more than anything, especially given that this is his fault. He will not allow Art to think he did something wrong, because Art has never. He’s always been the kindest person Patrick knows, so if Art wants to talk, then he’ll talk.
He’ll do anything for him.
He reaches out and takes Art’s face in his hands, stepping far too close into his personal space because he’s not letting him push him away. Not like this.
“I’m not going after her, and I’m not gonna just forget this.” He says firmly, and blue eyes flicker up to meet his own. “I care about what you’re saying, you’re upset, so this matters, yeah? I’m sorry, okay? You matter to me, you are important, Art. I fucked up, and I’m sorry. I need you to know that. I care”
Art stares at him, with tears still welling against his lashes, his face cradled in the palms of Patrick’s big hands, in his wrinkly shirt and with his messy hair and suddenly it’s clear what Patrick needs to do.
It’s what he’s wanted to do as long as he can remember, what he’s been craving so desperately that it makes him want to tear at his hair and scream and cry if he so much as thinks about it - just like it has every since that night in the hotel.
So he does it.
He kisses Art.
Art tenses, his lips parting in surprise as he twitches, as if he’s moving to withdraw, but Patrick doesn’t let him. He doesn’t let go. And as his tongue swipes his lower lip, Art melts.
He relaxes into it with a soft whine, grabbing at Patrick’s shirt as he suddenly responds, his mouth moving against Patrick’s.
It’s clumsy and awkward and a little bit uncomfortable at first, until suddenly it isn’t. Until suddenly it’s like they’re made for each other, their lips fitting together in perfect harmony.
And fuck if this isn’t everything Patrick’s been looking for all his life.
He loves Tashi, really fucking loves her, in a way that he could see himself marrying her. They’d settle down in some too-big house somewhere, their base for when they’d overlap between their tours and competitions. They’d have an overly lavish wedding that they’d both hate, and Patrick would end up taking her on a crazy honeymoon just to fuck her silly in the most expensive hotels his father’s money could buy. They’d fight and fuck it out, just like they do now, and they’d be as happy as either of them could be when they were both winning.
Because Patrick knows Tashi. He knows her like he knows himself, two halves of the same coin, and he understands that the most important thing to her will always be tennis. Patrick knows where he stands with her, and he doesn’t even resent it. Not much, anyway..
So yeah, they’d be happy.
Happy enough.
But Art…?
Art doesn’t fit into a life like that. And there’s no life Patrick wants without Art.
Because as much as he can see him and Tashi settling down, he can’t see them having kids or decorating their bedroom or going grocery shopping or actually doing fucking anything domestic. They’re not that kind of couple.
But he and Art could be.
Because he can see himself marrying Art, he’s fantasised about it since they were fucking twelve, because he’s been utterly head over heels for him since they met, unable to envision anything other than forever with the boy who slept in the bed next to his.
They’d have a beautiful wedding somewhere green and pretty, then on their honeymoon they’d go somewhere scenic and go for walks and out to restaurants and then go back to their rented place and they’d make love until they were both happy and giggling and whispering how much they loved each other like it was some great secret.
They’d both go pro but they’d tour together, have some little place near Art’s grandmother they’d base themselves out of. They’d get a dog, retire together and adopt some kids, then spend the rest of their lives coaching and commentating and maybe write a book about being openly gay in the sporting world or something.
They’d decorate the whole house together, taking care to make every inch special, make the whole place theirs .
They’d go to the supermarket and cook and Art would ban Patrick from the kitchen for being a dick, and Patrick would kiss him silly up against the fridge until he relented and allowed him to help again.
They’d have the most tooth-rottingly sugary-sweet lives together, and Patrick knows that because he has dreamed about it every night for most of a decade.
But Tashi doesn’t fit into that life.
And he’s not sure that now he’s had a taste of the whirlwind that is Tashi Duncan, that he could ever give her up.
And that is where the problem lies.
Because Patrick knows how in love with Tashi Art is, but he’s also very quickly coming to terms with the fact that regardless of whatever his true feelings may be, Art apparently wants him in some way, if the way he’s kissing him is any indication.
So fuck it.
He’ll ignore the future in favour of right now, because right now he has the boy he’s loved for so long in his arms, licking into his mouth, and he’ll take whatever he can get, because it means he has Art.
Really that’s all that matters.
Art sucks Patrick’s bottom lip in between his teeth, and the low moan he’s rewarded by makes him smile against his mouth. He pulls back to speak, to try and express everything he’s feeling, but Patrick takes the opportunity to pepper kisses along his jaw, then down his throat, and he bites at the freckle just to the right of his Adam’s apple and Art forgets how to speak entirely.
It’s only when Patrick has dragged him back down onto Tashi’s bed that the giddy thrill of having Patrick’s mouth on his twists into something ugly, something vicious that curls in his gut, guilty and angry and afraid.
Patrick’s got a hand up his shirt, thumb rolling over a nipple and the other is teasing at the hem of his shorts as he sucks bruises into the juncture of his throat and shoulder, and suddenly his hand is dipping below his waistband and he -
"Stop -” Art manages to croak, a hand shoving helplessly at Patrick’s shoulder. “Get off of me Pat.”
To his credit, Patrick stops immediately, pulling up and away from him. His eyes are dark, cheeks pink with want as he stares down at him, and it hurts, Art realises, because it’s not true.
“Baby,” Patrick starts, his brows knitting in concern, and Art shakes his head, shoving him fully away so he can sit up.
“No - Pat, stop. I don’t wanna hear it, I - I can’t go through with this.”
He moves to stand, but there’s a hand on his wrist, pulling him back to stay sitting.
“Art —”
“ — Let me go.” He tries to pull his hand away, but Patrick’s grip doesn’t ease up, and white hot panic suddenly flares in his chest and he tries to pull away again, this time more frantic. “Patrick let me go, let me go.” There’s panic bleeding into his voice now and Patrick’s concern only grows, his lips curving downwards. “Patrick, please.”
But he doesn’t.
“Art. Stop, breathe.” He says firmly, and Art realises his chest is burning, his throat too tight as he struggles to get enough air. He sucks in a deep breath, his eyes falling shut, then another, and Patrick’s other hand is on his shoulder, gently rubbing tense muscle. “There we go baby, you’re okay.” His tone is so achingly tender, that familiar softness reserved for Art and Art alone.
But it doesn’t soothe him, doesn’t calm the storm raging inside of him.
He inhales again and chokes on it, drawing his knees up to his chest.
“I can’t do this.” He whispers. “I can’t - I can’t just be another notch in your bedpost Pat, I - I… this won’t fix us.”
Patrick withdraws a little, then suddenly he’s shifting closer, resting his chin on Art’s knee.
“You don’t have to, baby you can say no, I understand.” He murmurs, but it’s clear he’s not getting it.
“No I know, but Pat it’s - I want you to want this… you can’t - I’m not just going to magically feel better. This isn’t a joke, not to me. I know - I know it’s always been funny, all this - whatever this is, the touching and the kissing and the pet names, but Pat I - it stopped being a joke to me fucking forever ago and this isn’t… this isn’t something we can just come back from.” The words escape him in a rush, his chest burning as he spills the things he’s buried for so long. Because Patrick has always been so touchy and affectionate and it’s stupid how much Art needs it, because none of it’s ever really been real. Patrick isn’t gay, he’s got a girlfriend, and they’re best friends so this shouldn’t matter, but it does. Because suddenly not having Patrick by his side 24/7 has made Art very quickly realise that it has always meant an awful lot to him. And he’s not sure his heart can take it if he lets Patrick fuck him just to be over this argument. “You - this - it’s always been too much, and this is - just, no.”
Patrick stares at him for a moment in genuine surprise, before something in his expression cracks and he breaths out in a rush.
“Art…” he swallows, then shakes his head. “Artie, what? No, you mean everything to me. I mean it. You matter as much Tashi does, you matter more than - more than tennis, more than… fuck, I don’t know, more than cigarettes. ” Patrick’s voice is gentle, but there’s a shake to it, betraying the truth of his sincerity. He means this, and he’s afraid Art won’t realise. “You’re my best friend, man, but you’re more than that. You… I…” he takes a breath, his fingers twitching against Art’s smooth calf as he finds the words. “This has always been real, nothing about you is a joke cause - I love you. I’m in love with you, I always fucking have been. Before Tashi, before any girl ever, it was you. It’s always been you man.” His voice trembles, and Art peeks up at him through his arms, and Patrick’s expression softens as their eyes meet.
There’s a moment where they just look at each other, before Patrick reaches for him, gently pushing his folded arms away so he can cup his face, and Art lets him, unfurling like a flower towards the sun.
And Patrick burns bright enough that he might as well be.
The fire to Art’s ice.
It’s unconscious, allowing Patrick in, and as fingertips curl along the hinge of his jaw under his ear, he feels himself relax, feels the affirmation of Patrick’s confession wash over him.
Patrick loves him.
Patrick loves him.
Patrick loves him.
“You mean it?”
It’s softer than he intends, hardly louder than a whisper as he stares at Patrick through his eyelashes, and he knows he does, but god he cannot live if this is a joke, if somehow he’s being lead along, if —
“Cross my heart.”
“Okay.”
Patrick blinks at him, and there’s a little crease between his eyebrows, one he gets when he’s stuck in his head, turning something over and over until he blows it up in his own mind. He’s just as nervous as Art, terrified that his admission is going to change things. It is, but… maybe Art doesn’t mind.
Maybe he feels the same way.
“Don’t forget about me again.”
Patrick shakes his head, brushing his thumb over Art’s cheekbone.
“I couldn’t, you’re part of me.”
There’s another pause, another heavy silence, and then Art moves. He pushes forwards so close that they share the same air, Patrick’s breath tickles his skin, and he smiles.
Because this is real. Patrick is real.
“Pat?”
Patrick’s eyes stay locked on his, and he grips him a little tighter, that crease still furrowing his skin.
“Art.”
“I love you.”
Patrick’s eyes widen and the crease disappears, the corners of his mouth twitch down, then curl back as he beams, and it’s blinding.
He’s beautiful.
And god Art has been so fucking blind because he can see it now, he can see Patrick now.
He’s been right there all this time, perfect and kind and loving, and Art was too blinded by jealousy, jealous of his tennis playing, his charm, his grades, his family, his smile, his girlfriends, Tashi, fucking everything about him. But not now, not anymore.
It’s not clear who kisses who this time, but their mouths collide in a frantic clash, teeth meeting lips and tongue. There’s something desperate about it, a fire suddenly lit beneath their skin, something pulling them together in a way that’s never felt so desperate before.
Maybe it’s the pull of lost time, maybe it’s the fact they’ve confessed their feelings, or maybe it’s just the fact that they’ve always wanted this, but Patrick feels like he can’t think for how much he wants this, for how much he wants Art. Every fibre of his being is crying out for him, and even tangled together as they are isn’t enough, he needs to be closer to him, he needs to hold Art so tightly that they can never let go again.
They kiss until they’re both dizzy, pulling back just far enough to pant breathlessly into each other’s mouths, before Art giggles, something soft and sweet and enticing, and Patrick laughs too.
“I love you.” He gasps out, just because he can, and Art tangles himself back up in his arms in response. “I’m sorry.” He follows, because it’s true. He is. He really, really is.
“Not good enough.” Art responds, and Patrick’s heart sinks, “kiss me again, and I’ll see if I can forgive you.”
He'd kiss him a thousand times if that was what he needed to understand the sincerity of his apology.
Because Patrick would do anything for Art.