Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Art had been livid. Threatening to leave had been one thing—expected even, with their marriage being the shitshow that it was (and with Tashi being the person that she is). Cheating had been another: a gradual recollection of all the tiny broken pieces of Art’s heart, as he let the initial shock run its course, all raw and seething and white-hot anger. But for Tashi to deliberately undermine him, for Tashi to ask Patrick to throw the match and just let Art win—it was entirely unacceptable.

(And Art would admit this fact to no one—absolutely no one—but in those moments in which he remembered, where he thought about Tashi and Patrick together, he didn’t think of Tashi at all. He could think only of Patrick. Of his body against hers; how he would tackle Art to the ground after they won yet another Junior Doubles, all-encompassing. Of his smile; how smug he looked after beating Art in a match, their eyes meeting across the court like a secret. Of his lips; how he kissed like he was trying to win an argument, the same way he kissed Art that night in the hotel—when Patrick had kissed Art for what felt like hours, a desperate drag of their mouths, kissing like they were breathing each other in—and Art had never felt so tuned in to him, so connected to Patrick, ever before in his life.)

So Art thought about Patrick a lot. He thought about Patrick and Tashi, together, a lot. And in those moments, his fist clenched tight, the image invading his mind like some intrusive thought, Art did—wholeheartedly, completely, and utterly—loathe Patrick Zweig. He hated him. He wanted him gone. He wanted to throw him to the floor and pummel him into the ground. If only for the briefest of moments. Then, the feeling was gone, fizzled out, faded; left to wither away in only the most pathetic recesses of his mind (which was where Art kept all his other terrible, conflicting feelings pertaining to that of his relationship with Patrick.)

Art wasn’t stupid. He had known about the cheating as soon as he saw them together in Atlanta. And he had suspected it happened again, here in New Rochelle, when he awoke to an empty hotel room, Tashi nowhere to be found. Patrick holding his ball up to the racket, signaling to him like he had all those years ago, had only confirmed what Art had been waiting to happen since he got here. Tashi and Patrick sleeping together was simple. Yeah, it hurt. Sure, he was furious. But that wasn’t what made him play like he was on fire, burning higher and higher, swinging hit after hit. No, it was when Patrick started serving perfectly, evening out their score, as Art stood fuming with betrayal. Because Art wasn’t stupid. He saw that Patrick was letting him win, and he exploded. Fuck off, he had said. Because Tashi had won. She had played her final move, cruel and cold and cunning, and won. Did she know Art would find out? That it would set alight something in him, make him play like he hadn’t in years? The way he only played when he was with Patrick? She must have known; in the stands, Tashi had grinned and cheered and lost herself in the game completely. Art should have known that Tashi could only ever be wholeheartedly cheering for someone if that person, beneath it all, was herself.

***

They played, an electrifying rush filling the space between them, one that Art was beginning to realize he only ever felt with Patrick. I’ll let you win, he remembers Patrick saying to him, the day they first saw Tashi. Really? Art had asked. He had never understood why Patrick offered to lose—had offered to let Art win. But now, his body buzzing, the energy palpable, he understood; he would let Patrick win ten times over if it meant they could keep playing like this forever. He didn’t want to ever let this go, not again. So he wrapped his arms around Patrick and pulled him in tight.

***

Art won, in the end, the whole stadium erupting into cheers and applause. Before he had even processed the win, he looked straight to Tashi, to see she was smiling bigger than she had in ages—and only then did he allow himself to relax. Patrick was smiling too, sprinting towards him, lifting him off the ground. It was like his whole world had collapsed into this moment on the court: Patrick setting him down and patting him on the back, and Tashi looking at him—really looking at him. Art forgot, for a second, about the cheating and retirement and his crumbling marriage, and let the win wash over him.

***

The locker rooms are empty when he and Patrick stumble in, their feet echoing across the concrete and metal. Art’s already vowed to skip the shower and jump straight to getting the hell out of here. He’s sure they both reek, but he doesn’t care; the endless interviews and photographs and signatures had left him dead-tired, the endorphins long since faded. He just wants to lie down on his hotel bed and never get back up.

Patrick starts stripping almost immediately, and Art leans against the lockers, thinking to himself. Now that the high of the match has dissipated, he isn’t sure how to act around Patrick. It feels weird, not knowing how to talk to him. He had always known, intrinsically, how to be around Patrick. They just worked. That’s why they were best friends. That’s why they had won every junior doubles match they ever played together. That’s why their game today had revitalized something in Art he thought died forever. But then Patrick had avoided his eyes the entire walk here, and the silence between them felt louder than any crowd’s thunderous applause. Maybe Patrick had suddenly gained a guilty conscience about sleeping with his wife, Art had reasoned, and with this brought a fresh wave of anxiety regarding all things Tashi. He spent the rest of the walk ruminating, running through every cruel thing Tashi had said the night before, wondering what was true and what was some scare tactic she thought would make him play better. By the time they arrived at the locker rooms, Art was a mess of nerves and overworked muscles.

There was a growing pit in his stomach, growing deeper each time he thought about facing the world outside this locker room. Where he would have to play in the U.S. Open, this time without Patrick. Where he would have to face Tashi, and her rigorous training for said U.S. Open. He swallows and decides he’d rather talk to Patrick than face that world right now.

“So,” Art says. “What now?”

Patrick pauses, shirtless and untying his shoe on the bench, to glance up at him.

“What do you mean—now?”

“I mean, aren’t you living out of your car? Where are you gonna go after this?”

“Why? You care about me or something?” Patrick smirks, head tilted, playful glint in his eyes.

Art knew it was an invitation, to let bygones be bygones and go back to how they had always been. They could go back to being friends, if only for a moment, then return back to separate lives, and never speak again. But he was tired. Tired of hitting a ball with a racket. Tired of pretending he didn’t miss Patrick. Tired of staying the same.

“I just want you to be okay.” I care about you, he considers adding but thinks it too much. He hopes it’s implied.

Patrick looks surprised by this. He finishes untying his shoe and sits back down on the bench, staring blankly at the lockers ahead. Art sits down next to him, making sure to leave at least a foot of space between them.

“My only skill in life is hitting a ball with a racket,” Patrick says.

Art laughs, turning his knees toward Patrick, “Mine too.”

Patrick’s quiet, an intense look on his face as he inches his body closer to Art, “The way I see it, really all I can do is keep playing.”

“Yeah, but for how long?” Art wills himself not to break eye contact, not to move away. They’ve always been good at playing chicken.

“As long as I can.” Patrick’s really close now, their legs touching.

“Yeah, but then what?”

“Jesus Christ, you sound like Tashi,” Patrick laughs, breaking the tension and looking away, rubbing his face in his hands.

“You could train me.” Art says, feeling insane.

Patrick just stares at him. Just stares and stares at him, a lopsided smile hanging off his face.

“You’re serious?”

“Dead.”

No backing down now, Art figures. Plus, the more he thinks about it, the more he wants it. This is him holding on to Patrick tight and never letting him go, not ever again.

Patrick’s smiling now, and Art realizes he is too, uncontrollably. Then Patrick leans in close, his nose almost touching Arts, and slaps his arm around Art's back.

“Okay.” Patrick is breathing in deep, huffing in and out like he’s breathless—that thing he does when he’s excited. Art swears he can feel Patrick’s eyelashes ticking his face, his breath bouncing off of his own. He leans his forehead against Patrick and starts to laugh. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy—because Patricks came back to him. He crashed back into his life, smashing it to pieces, but also rearranging it in all the places Art didn’t realize were wrong. Art wraps his arms around Patrick, so they’re completely entwined.

“Okay,” Patrick whispers again. “I’ll do it.” And then they're both laughing, holding on to each other for dear life—and Art forgets to worry about the world outside this locker room at all. Because Patrick is here now to help him face it, even if some part of him knows he’s being too optimistic.

***

Tashi is standing by their car, waiting for him, when they finally leave the locker room. She has her arms crossed, his trophy dangling in one hand, her phone in the other.

(After Art had won, Tashi hugged him and whispered, That was the best fucking game of tennis I have ever seen, and Art suddenly felt so upset with her he couldn't breathe. Because everything she had done, everything she had said, was justified now with his win. She could kick and scream and punch at him, but if it made him a better player, there was nothing he could do to stop it. It made him feel like a caged animal.)

“Patrick’s gonna help me train for the U.S. Open,” He says.

She looks at Art, not Patrick—doesn’t even glance in Patrick's direction—and lowers her glasses, staring for a moment. He expects Tashi to say something along the lines of Are you fucking crazy, but instead, all she says is “Okay.” It’s in a tone that implies they’ll be discussing this later, but Art’s so stunned she agreed that he doesn’t even care. Then Tashi gets into the driver's side of the car and starts the engine.

Art turns to look at Patrick, who’s staring hard at Tashi with an expression a little like disappointment.

“What? Did you want her to tell you a good job? You know Tashi would never do that.”

“Fuck off,” Patrick spits, shoving his hands in his pockets and staring at the ground, brow furrowed.

Art rolls his eyes. Patrick’s so moody, especially when it comes to Tashi.

“Hand me your phone,” Art says.

“What? Why?” But Patrick is already pulling it out of his pocket and passing it to Art.

“So I can call you about training, idiot.” Art adds his contact, putting a little heart next to his name just to fuck with Patrick. “There. Done. Now go take a shower, you smell like shit.”

Art gives the phone back to a dumbfounded Patrick and starts to walk towards the passenger side of the car. When he looks back, Patrick’s flipping him off, but he’s smiling—so that’s something, Art figures.

***

They decide to train at Art and Tashi’s house in upstate New York, mostly because Patrick is stubborn and refuses to leave his car to fly anywhere further. Plus, with their house being as big as it is, Patrick can stay here too—instead of living out of his car. 

It takes maybe five minutes to move Patrick in. He only has one bag, his tennis bag, which he doesn’t let Art carry when he offers. Art leads him inside and upstairs to the guest room, where Patrick promptly dumps his bag on the floor and leaps on to the bed. He just lays there, sighing happily with his arms crossed behind his head. God, it feels like they’re roommates at the academy again. What is Art’s life?

“Wait,” Art says, realizing something. “Have you changed clothes, since the Challenger?”

The Challenger that was two days ago.

“Maybe,” Patrick shrugs.

“You’re disgusting,” Art mutters, and then goes to his room to grab Patrick some clothes.

Patrick’s eyes are closed when he comes back. He looks—he looks peaceful. So different from when they were kids, with dark stubble covering his face, broad shoulders, huge muscles, and hairy arms. Art lingers for a second, taking in his body.

Then he throws the clothes at Patrick's face.

Patrick jumps up, startled as Art says, “Dinner’s at seven if you want it.” Then he closes the door.

***

Dinner is awkward. To say the least.

“Do you play tennis like Mommy and Daddy?” Lily asks Patrick, breaking the ongoing lull of forks scraping plates.

“Yeah,” Patrick answers. Except his mouth is so full of food it comes out garbled and barely comprehensible. Tashi looks utterly disgusted by this.

“He’s who Daddy played against at the game a couple of days ago,” Tashi says, voice all high and drawn out, like it gets when she talks to Lily.

“Oh,” Lily says, pushing her mac and cheese around with her fork. “You mean the one who you said was gonna win?”

Art stops chewing and glares at Tashi, anger bubbling up fast in his chest. What the fuck, Tashi? He glances at Patrick, who grins but doesn’t say anything, just keeps shoveling as much food as humanly possible into his mouth.

“Yeah, that one,” Tashi says, letting out a surprised laugh. She doesn’t even seem embarrassed she got caught.

Art wants to be the bigger person. He does. Really. But instead, he says, “Still beat him though.”

Tashi huffs.

“Mmhm. Took a lot of help though,” She says, her eyes flashing red. Oh, help. Right. Like ransoming out their marriage and cheating on him with his childhood best friend. Right. Art tightens his hand around his fork, glancing at Patrick.

Patrick just keeps on eating. At least he seems to know when to keep his head down. (Rarely, but sometimes.)

Art opens his mouth, except everything he can think to say would probably scar Lily forever. Instead, he stands up, chair scraping, puts his plate in the sink, and leaves the room. Fuck this. He’s tired of being Tashi’s fucking lap dog, begging her to pet him. All his whining—Will you hold me? Just until I fall asleep?—has gotten him nowhere. Just a tennis career built on other people telling him where to go, what to eat, and what to wear. He’s been taking orders for so long that he doesn’t even know how to make decisions on his own—much less who he is.

***

He’s sitting out by the pool, stewing in anger and self-pity and regret, when Patrick comes to join him. The sun has long set, the pool lighting up everything around it in this pretty, aquamarine glow. The cicadas are finally out, buzzing loudly from the trees nestled further back in the yard.

“Can you do me a favor, Patrick, and fuck right off.” Art spits, not looking up at him.

“I wanna talk. Just—please?”

Wow. He’s never heard Patrick say please before. First time for everything, Art supposes. He keeps blinking blankly into the pool and avoiding Patrick’s eyes.

“We’ve gotta train together tomorrow. You can’t ignore me forever,” Patrick continues.

Okay sure, he makes a fair point. But Art can try, damn it.

“Art,” Patrick pleads, squatting down in front of him and blocking Art’s view of the pool.

Fine. If Patrick doesn’t wanna back down, then Art won’t either. So he waits a beat, and then he says it. What he’s wanted to ask since Atlanta. No, since Patrick first put the ball up against his racket. The question that’s always lingering in the back of his mind: “Why did you sleep with Tashi? Why the fuck would you do that to me, Patrick?”

Art’s eyes are burning. He thinks his voice may have cracked a little. Jesus Christ, this cannot be happening.

“Is it that insane that someone could want me? That someone like Tashi could want me?”

“You’re avoiding the question and you know it,” Art says.

Patrick sighs, sitting right next to Art, their sides pressed together. Art scoots away.

“I slept with her because I wanted to. That’s it. But to be really fucking honest? Me and her only really talk about you when we’re together.”

Patrick grabs Art's hand. Art pulls away, heart pounding in his ears. Patrick suddenly looks very, very angry. He’s almost smiling but his eyes are burning red.

”Do you wanna know why I think you slept with her, Art?”

Art doesn’t move. Their hands aren’t touching anymore, but Art can feel the phantom touch, still electric on his skin.

Patrick leans in close, baring his teeth. Fiery eyes. Hot breath. He goes in for the kill: “You only ever wanted her because I wanted her. And she only stuck around because you didn’t ever tell her no, like I did.”

Sometimes Art wishes Patrick didn’t know him so well, that Patrick wasn’t the only person Art knew who could reach into Art’s mind and unearth all of his deepest insecurities and secrets that he tried so hard to hide. Art is a caged animal whose been backed into a corner, an animal who hasn’t yet realized resistance is futile. So Art is going to claw and scratch and hurt in any way he can.

“Yeah, okay, Patrick. Sure. Jesus, you never change. This isn’t fucking kindergarten—you can’t—can’t call dibs. At least I mattered. At least I married her. At least I wasn’t just a couple one-off fucks that never amounted to anything more. Because she knows what you are: worthless, who’s only good at tennis because of his serve—not his playing. Natural talent can only take you so far, and I think you’re too afraid to really try at tennis or anything else, because you know, deep down, you’ll never be great. Just good. Just—move on, Patrick. Give up. It’s fucking embarrassing to watch.”

Patrick doesn’t seem phased. He’s still looking at Art with an equal mix of both rage and calm. It makes him look a little crazy. He gets in Art’s face and says, “Then why did you even ask me to come here? If I mean that little to you.”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit. You do know. Say it. Say you play better when you’re with me. Say it’s not the same with anyone else,” Patrick hisses into Art's ear, manic. “Even Tashi.”

Art shoves him away, seething. He won’t give Patrick the satisfaction, even if he’s right. “It’s late, I should go to sleep. Good night, Patrick.”

Art pats Patrick on the shoulder, starting to stand.

“Yeah, okay,” Patrick says, letting out a short breath of a laugh. “Run back to Tashi. Who’s the coward now?”

He grabs Patrick by the shirt. He gets up in his face. “I am not the coward here.”

But Patrick is beaming now, a deranged glint in his eye, because Art just gave him exactly what he wanted—a reaction, proof of life. Then Patrick starts doing something utterly insane; he starts looking at Art’s lips, leaning in close like he’s going to kiss him.

Art immediately jumps back, wide-eyed and speechless.

But Art had proved Patrick's point and Patrick knows it. He has that stupid smirk on his face. The same one he would wear after he beat Art in a match. He stands up, pats Art on the shoulder, and says, “Good night, Art.”

Then he’s gone.

Chapter Text

Art always knew. Of course, he fucking knew. Patrick was his best friend. They lived out of each other's pockets for half their lives. Art knew there was something there in the way Patrick looked at him, raked his eyes over his body sometimes when Art was changing or shirtless. It made Art’s stomach swoop low and wild. Stop that, he wanted to scream at him. You make it so obvious. You make it so hard to ignore. But it didn’t stop, and there was no ignoring Patrick. He was everywhere. In Art’s room and at practice. In summer vacations and winter breaks. Next to him during school. Across from him while he ate his meals. 

In his ear as Art jerked off. 

And fuck—Patrick knew how to talk. Art thought about it sometime—Patrick’s voice in his ears, like referring back to a textbook—and there was that swooping in his stomach, returning tenfold. So good for me, baby. Yeah, just like that. You need to be slower for me, baby. Watch me. It was poison in Art’s brain, slowly killing him and he couldn’t stay away. No matter how he tried. 

It didn’t stop with Art either; Patrick was always hungry. Starving. He sometimes hooked up with boys at the academy. Art always knew when it was happening. When Patrick would stare too long at some boy on the court, or the dance floor, or during introductions—and they’d disappear behind some equipment shed or hotel room door. Sometimes, Patrick wouldn’t be back to their room until much later, and Art would lie on their bed, fuming with anger even though he knew it was irrational. But they never talked about it. It just sat between them like a fire: Art burning with jealousy, Patrick daring Art to call him out, to acknowledge this thing between them for once. But Art never did. He just let it get hotter, and hotter until he was melting with it—so hot he could have erupted into flames. 

***

Patrick, of course, is late for their first training session the next morning. Art was sure he had left after their fight and took off into the night to never return. But here he was. Standing across the court in those same ugly workout clothes he wore at the Challenger. 

“You know,” Art says. “I’ll buy you new clothes, all you need to do is ask.”

“Would I have to call you daddy, too?” Patrick remarks, serving the ball straight towards Art's face with a loud THWACK. 

“Naturally.” Art dodges and hits the ball back to Patrick.

Patrick huffs, and then angles his swing so Art has to sprint all the way to the opposite end, whacking it back just in time. Yeah, Patrick’s definitely still a little pissed about what Art said last night.

***

Tashi’s speaking at a sports management conference at Stanford for the weekend, so Art spends his time caring for Lily and training less than he should. Patrick, surprisingly, is really good with Lily. They all watch Spiderverse together the first night Tashi leaves (Lily can’t believe Patrick has never seen it), and even though Art’s watched it a million times, Patrick’s commentary makes it about a thousand times more hilarious. Lily seems to think so too, giggling every time Patrick makes some silly impression—although she still ends up passing out well before the third act. (Art’s not sure she’s ever stayed awake to see the ending yet.) When he comes back from putting Lily to bed, he finds Patrick has sprawled out on the couch, longways, and is now sipping a beer he stole from Art’s fridge. Upon seeing Art, Patrick moves his legs back to make room and gestures to the coffee table, where he’s set out another beer. 

Art’s not really supposed to drink when training for big competitions, but he grabs the beer and opens it anyway. 

They end up drinking way more than two beers. 

Art’s a little too far past tipsy (definitely closer to drunk), and somehow he’s found himself on the floor, resting his back against the couch. They’re watching old clips on YouTube of Patrick and him playing junior double after junior double. Damn, they were just so good. A perfect rhythm between one another, communicating wordlessly, dancing in and out of each other's spaces. 

Art is making fun of the sloppy way Patrick had volleyed the ball when Patrick begins to slide down the couch to sit beside him.

“What are you doing down here?” Patrick asks, moving so the sides of his body brush against Arts.

“Nothing, just like it down here,” Art huffs. Except he maybe slightly slurs the last couple of words, and he presses up against Patrick as he breathes. Okay, yeah. He’s definitely drunk.

“We really thought we were the shit, huh,” Patrick says, nodding towards the TV. 

“I mean, we kinda were.” 

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes. He lulls his head against the seat cushion of the couch. His eyes drag across Art’s face, half-lidded. “We kind of were.”

WHAP! 

For a long moment, there is only the sound of tennis balls being whacked across a court.

WHAP!

They stare into each other's eyes for what probably would be an uncomfortable amount of time with anyone else but Patrick. 

WHAP!

It happens in slow motion. Art can feel it happening but he’s too drunk to stop it. Can feel his mouth form the words but can’t control it. He says, “I missed you.”

Silence.

WHAP! 

Cheering. 

Patrick is rubbing his face with his hand and staring at the ceiling.

“Art.”

Patrick is looking at Art like he’s in pain. 

“I did,” Art says. “I missed you all the time.”

Patrick breathes. He huffs in deep, desperate. 

He says, “Don’t do this, Art. Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

Patrick lifts his head up. They stare at each other again. But this time, Art can’t stop looking at Patrick’s ears. They always tinge a little red whenever he drinks. He reaches out and touches them with his fingertips. He giggles. Fuck. He did not just giggle right now.

Patrick leans into Art's touch as he does, keeps staring at him—in that way that he only ever looks at Art. Like he’s conveying every emotion he’s ever felt all at once. Like he’s reaching into Art’s head and pulling out every thought. 

The room is silent now, and Art realizes the video isn’t playing anymore. He doesn’t know when it turned off. It’s like his whole world has collapsed into Patrick. Patrick, widening his eyes as Art touches his ears. Patrick, looking at Art so softly, so carefully, when he giggles. Patrick, leaning his face into Art’s hand, his muscles working as he moves his neck, and his shoulders. Patrick, moving his head farther back, so his mouth is now turned into Art's hand. Patrick, his breath tickling Art's skin, his lips lightly brushing up and down onto Art's palm. 

Art shivers, breathing hard. This feels entirely too dangerous, but he can’t stop himself, not anymore. He brings his hand back, so his thumb hovers over Patrick's lips. He cautiously pushes forward, pressing his finger into Patrick's mouth, and lets it drag over his tongue. And Patrick just takes it. Just wraps his whole mouth around Art's thumb, looking at him through his lashes, and sucks. The whole thing is so wet and obscene and hot that Art can’t help but gasp when it happens. Art's whole body feels overheated, his breath heavy, as he shifts his thumb around Patrick's mouth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Art whispers.

Patrick doesn’t look away. He keeps lapping his tongue over Art’s thumb like he’s aching for it. 

Art is too far gone now. Drunk on cheap beer and power. He hooks his thumb behind Patrick’s bottom teeth and gently pulls him forward. He cradles Patrick’s face with his other hand and drags it over the stubble. Then he slips out his thumb from between Patrick’s lips and brings their faces together, so close that he can feel Patrick’s breath tickle his nose. It’s frantic, rapid, against his face, like Patrick just ran a marathon.

“Art,” Patrick croaks. He sounds wrecked.

“Mmhm?” 

Art can barely hear himself. He feels far away, transient. He’s staring at Patrick’s lips. He’s moving his fingers along Patrick’s jaw. He’s dragging his fingers across Patrick’s face, his lips, his stubble, his nose, painting abstract designs on his skin. Privately, Art always thought Patrick was pretty. Maybe not like the way girls were pretty. But pretty in the way a forest swayed or river flowed—how you could look at it for hours and always find more to admire. 

(Art has always been a romantic. His English Professors always gushed when Art said stuff like that—left little notes on his report cards and shit like Makes wonderful contributions to class. Patrick always just called him gay when he said stuff like that.)

“You’re insufferable,” Patrick whispers. He sounds like he’s trying very hard to keep his voice steady. He lifts his head. He brings his face close so that his lips are ghosting Art’s. So that Art can feel his breathing, ragged against his skin.

And slowly, ever-so slowly—until Art’s dying for his lips to touch Art’s own—Patrick kisses him. 

It’s not as impatient as the one in the hotel room when they had kissed all those nights before. Instead, it’s languid and sloppy, each movement a declaration. Patrick keeps grazing his tongue across Art’s bottom lips (and Art keeps gasping each time Patrick does it, even though he knows it only makes Patrick want to do it again). He keeps biting into Patrick’s mouth, saying, Art , Art , Art , and sliding his hands up Art’s shirt, down his body. Art can’t focus on anything other than Patrick. He’s all over his skin, placing his arms against Art’s sides, cornering him in, pushing him back against the couch. Art feels like he’s drowning. He needs to breathe. 

“Patrick,” Art gasps for air, pulling away.

“Yeah,” Patrick starts mouthing at Art’s neck, undoing Art’s belt. 

Art reaches to stop him—but he can’t stop bucking into Patrick’s hands each time they pass over him, needy with it. 

“Fuck. Should we—Should—take things slower?”

But once Patrick gets Art’s fly down, yanks down his pants, and palms Art through his boxers—Art knows he’s gone. Art knows he’s been gone for Patrick Zweig since Patrick whispered Let me show you in the dark of their dorm room when they were thirteen and young and stupid. Art would go as slow as Patrick needed, even if it meant they didn’t go slow at all—as long as it meant Patrick would stay with him.

Patrick sinks to his knees, shifting his face between Art’s legs, eyes dripping with want and heavy-lidded with need—and Art knows he’s gone, that he has been for a long time.  

***

He wakes up to a face full of Patrick and immediately knows he’s fucked up. They don’t talk about it, which—of course, they don’t talk about it. It’s just very…obvious, that they don’t talk about it. It hangs over the bed after Art wakes up. (Although; for a few, hazy minutes, Art pretends it doesn't. He lets Patrick hold him in his arms and thinks this is how things always have been and lets sleep warp and bend the distance between reality and his dreams and sinks into Patrick’s touch—on his hips, his chest, his shoulders—until it’s ripped away from him as consciousness seeps it’s way back through.) Art can sense the moment Patrick comes to, and senses the shift. He retreats to the bathroom, awkward and sniffing. Then it hangs in the air between them during breakfast. During training too, when Patrick seems distant and far away, barely even there. Art feels the faintest of anger, rising within him and burning at the edges. But mostly—he just feels sad. 

They don’t talk about it, but Art can’t say he’s surprised; Patrick has always been good at leaving things unfinished. 

***

They spend the rest of the day after training on Saturday hanging out by the pool.

(A training which, by all accounts, was absolutely brutal ; Patrick making Art dance across the court, this-way-and-that. He is most certainly angry with Art, that much is obvious, but Patrick knows if he calls Art out on his silence—of Art’s ignorance of their night together—he’ll rightfully be called a hypocrite. And if Art called out Patrick, he would be a hypocrite as well. So Art lets Patrick punish him, as they spin and spin, locked in their own stalemate; he knows Patrick well enough to know his anger will pass quickly. Usually. Hopefully.)

Patrick plays Sharks and Minnows with Lily (Art’s not entirely sure how they’re playing with only two people, but they manage). Art fucks around on his phone and pretends he’s not really just watching Patrick’s muscles stretch under the water and the setting summer sun. They order Domino’s for dinner like they used to over those long and unending summer breaks and watch The LEGO Batman Movie and don’t talk about it. And even after Lily’s put to bed, they don’t talk about it. But as they finish the movie, Patrick does touch his pinky finger to Art’s on the couch—like an apology—as they watch the rest of the movie. Some of the tension between them dissipates. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough. It’s the best weekend Art’s had in ages. 

***

By the third day of training, Art has begun to consider the possibility that Patrick may be a masochist. He makes Art run through reps until he’s gasping for breath, body screaming. He won’t allow Art to stop until his movements are perfect, near robotic in their precision. But Art just lets him, just lets him push him—farther than he’s ever let Tashi push. Patrick always makes him feel like he has everything to prove, all the time. It drives him up the walls. 

Things haven’t really been great between them, but they also haven’t been horrible either. They train. They eat lunch and dinner without acknowledging the other. Then they go to sleep, and sometimes their shoulders brush in the hallway as they slide past each other, and Art feels a shock ripple everywhere throughout his body. It’s fine, Art supposes. It works well enough. 

***

Things reach a boiling point on the fourth day, though.

“Stop,” Art wheezes.

He crouches down and puts his hands on his knees, breathing hard. Patrick has been making him run around the court, taking any serve he throws at him for nearly an hour and a half now. He hasn’t stopped for a break since, and the heat and lack of water is catching up to him.

Patrick, to his credit, looks a little apologetic. He’s dripping with sweat too, breathing hard. 

He walks over and hands Art a water bottle, saying, “Fuck. Sorry.”

They sit down next to each other on the court, exhausted. Art’s kind of surprised Patrick even bothered to apologize. It’s both their fault, really. They feed off on another's energy, raising the bar higher and higher until it’s impossible to go any further. They always have. 

“S’fine,” Art says, taking a swig from the water. 

Patrick drinks his water too, but he misses his mouth slightly, and Art catches himself following the drips as they curve over Adam's apple and under his shirt. 

Shit. Patrick’s smirking at him. He definitely noticed. Shit.

“If you keep pushing me this hard, I’m gonna be too burnt out to even play at the Open,” Art says.

“If I don’t push you this hard, you won’t even be playing at the Open,” Patrick shrugs. 

Art swallows. He doesn’t argue with Patrick.

“Go train with Tashi if you don’t like my coaching style,” Patrick says.

“At least Tashi knows my limits.”

“Your limits are a lot different with me than they are with her.”

Art takes a sip of his water. “Sure. Whatever.”

“You do want to do well at the Open, right?” Patrick says. “Because it doesn’t seem like it to me.”

“Fuck, it doesn’t even matter,” Art throws his hands down. He says, “I’m retiring after the Open, whether I do well or not.”

Patrick pauses. 

After a few seconds, all he says is, “Does Tashi know?”

He nods. “I think she’s secretly hoping I won’t.”

Patrick processes this, shaking his head. “Well, shit.”

Silence. 

“But. Uh. You don’t have to leave here, after the Open, you know.” It stumbles from Art’s mouth gracelessly, awkwardly. But then he just—keeps talking. About how Patrick could stay in their house for as long as he needed. About how no one ever uses it. About how Lily would miss him. About how maybe Art wouldn’t retire, maybe he’d keep going (if it meant Patrick would stay on as his coach). He’s never been one to ramble, but Patrick has always been the exception to everything in Arts life. Because he doesn’t want Patrick to leave, can’t go back to how things were. Because he can’t go back to the same, bone-crushing loneliness he felt in those years without Patrick. He can’t. He just can’t.

“Hey,” Patrick says, cutting him off and putting a hand on his thigh. 

Well, shit, Art thinks, Patrick’s voice inside his head. 

“I’m not gonna leave if you retire, you asshole,” Patrick says, grinning, leaning in real close to Art. 

He’s always so close to Art, always getting in his face—it drives Art crazy. Art has never wanted to be the one to break away, but it’s always been torture to stay so hyper-aware of their own closeness. He lets his eyes roam over Patrick's face, tracing the way his nose slopes, the way his eyes crease, the way his smile seeps into every one of his features. Then he realizes Patrick is staring at his lips.

Art clears his throat. Looks away and says, “Good. That—that’s good.”

“Yeah?” Patrick teases, craning his neck so Art can see his face again. He looks smug. It makes Art furious; the way Patrick can read him so fast. 

“Yeah.” Art looks into the distance. “Lily will be happy.”

“Huh,” Patrick pouts. “No one else?”

“Hm, let me think,” Art says, furrowing his brow for effect. He puts a finger to his lips. “Nope. Can’t think of anyone else.” 

Art feels his lips begin to curve, against his own violation. Damn it.

“You little shit,” Patrick hisses, and then he tackles Art to the ground.

They don't talk about it when Art's thumb makes circles on the exposed skin of Patrick's hip. They don't talk about it when Patrick lets his lips brush against Art's for too long, Art gasping with each pass of his mouth.

But Art does smile, big and bright, as they stare down at one another—as light surrounds Patrick's face, in a golden halo, sunbeams leaking from beyond his curls. And Patrick smiles back.