꧁𖦹aves𖦹꧂

VALENTINE’S DAY at a place like this is either very romantic or a very bad idea. There is no in-between.

The restaurant you find yourself at is polished within an inch of its life: floors gleaming, glasses so thin you’re already nervous to hold them wrong, and candles flickering in little gold halos in front of couples that make them look more in love than they probably are.

You wonder distantly if that’s the point.

You’re acutely aware of your husband’s hand resting on the small of your back as the hostess leads you through a maze of white tablecloths. He’s dressed up for once in a rented two piece suit. The tie you picked out for him rests in the passenger seat of his Honda CR-V, hastily torn off before you exited the car because “I’m not a fucking priss, babe. This makes me look stupid.”

Not a priss, he said, right before leading you into a restaurant that neither of you can afford to dine in with a couple that neither of you should be seeing.

“Breathe,” Patrick murmurs into your ear.

You don’t realise you haven’t been until you try. Your chest feels tight, like you’ve just spent twenty minutes running laps instead of sitting in your car to hype yourself up. It was your idea to say yes, so you refuse to let him know you’re panicking to avoid some petty jab about being a pussy over dinner.

You could have declined. You could have laughed and told Tashi you had plans. You could have pretended that spending Valentine’s Day with your husband’s ex-girlfriend—who is also your ex-girlfriend—and your own ex-boyfriend—who is now her husband—wasn’t some kind of elaborate emotional suicide mission.

Instead, you’re here, ready to face the guillotine. And isn’t this about to be a shitshow?

You see them immediately. They’re settled in a corner booth that somehow manages to feel both intimate and exposed to all the eyes in the room. Art Donaldson is not what you remember from college. He looks like he belongs here now, in a navy suit with a crisp collar and posture so straight you have to force yourself to stand taller to match it.

It hurts to look at him, akin to the way it’d feel to press on an old bruise to check if it still hurts.

It does, your brain adds helpfully.

Tashi sits next to him. You almost laugh, because of course she looks like that. You’ve seen her on magazines, TV screens, every social media platform you own, but the severe cut of her hair now makes your footsteps falter. She looks older. More mature than the young prodigy you used to giggle with in her dorm bed. Her dress is dark with an elegant cut, and you catch a glimpse of those long legs beneath the table, the strap of her heel glinting under the cloth. 

For a second, you’re seventeen again, standing across the net from her and trying not to flinch when she smiles like she already knows exactly how the match is going to play out. You hate that your stomach still flips. 

The most notable thing about them all—even if you have to squint to see it from this distance—is the matching wedding bands on their hands. You twist your own subconsciously. It’s a beautiful ring. Patrick managed to convince his father into giving it to him somehow. It still doesn’t feel like it’s enough to scream married couple when your husband is glancing around the room to eye the cleavage of the women you pass.

You force a smile on your face. It’s fine. He’s fine. You’re fine.

Art looks up at first, his smile faltering when his eyes find the pair of you. The crack in the polish lasts a microsecond before he rises to his feet to offer you a greeting. “Hey.”

Patrick’s hand tightens against your back as you stop in front of the table. 

“Hey,” you echo, forcing something light into your voice. “Happy Valentine’s.”

Tashi’s mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Bold choice,” she says. “A double date.”

You laugh, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? “Your idea.”

“Yes,” she says smoothly. “It was.”

You sit. Patrick pulls your chair out for you, and you can’t remember the last time he’s done that without being prompted. You know he’s auditioning for Husband of the Year purely because of your company, but it makes your heart stutter nonetheless. Art waits until you’re both settled before taking his seat again.

Two married couples. Four people who have, at various points in their lives, slept in each other’s beds; whispered promises; thrown rackets and said things that can’t be unsaid. 

The waiter appears and Tashi orders two bottles of wine. Something red—you don’t recognise the name, only that it sounds fancy enough that it has to be excessive (and way too expensive for your bank account.) But you have a feeling you’re going to need it. 

The first ten minutes are polite. Too polite.

“How’s the tour?” Art asks Patrick.

“Fine,” he shrugs dismissively. “Nothing glamorous. Mostly challengers. You know.”

The word lingers between you all. Challengers. While Tashi has managed to make a household name out of Donaldson, your husband is still playing challengers. You almost snort.

Tashi’s gaze flicks to you, sharp but curious. “And you?”

“Coaching some juniors,” you say. “Playing some smaller events when I feel like it.”

You don’t mention it’s because you can’t afford it consistently. For the most part, rent falls on you when Patrick is halfway across the country. Coaching keeps you both afloat. 

There’s the faintest twitch in her jaw. She doesn’t say it aloud, but you know why: you’re coaching of your own volition while it’s the path that the universe thrust unfairly upon her. Your stomach twists guiltily. 

She tilts her head slightly. “Not playing seriously?” The words are mild, but the implication isn’t.

You force yourself to hold her gaze. “Depends what you mean by serious.”

“I heard you had a good run last spring,” Art says, stepping in the way he used to when things got too heated. You manage a grateful smile in his direction. “Charleston?”

He’s been paying attention. You don’t know how to feel about that. 

“Semis,” you confirm. “I lost, though.”

Tashi’s fingers tighten around her glass and your stomach sinks. God, you hate that you still want her approval.

“To who?” Patrick asks, though you know he knows the answer—he’d been there, after all. He just wants to hear you say it. You don’t give him the satisfaction.

“Tough draw,” you say instead. Tashi’s mouth curves slightly and you know she can see right through you. “Everyone played well.”

Art offers you a reassuring smile. It almost makes up for the scoff Tashi is biting back. The waiter arrives with the wine, sparing you from elaborating any further. You practically gulp down your first glass.

By the time you’ve all started on the second, the edges of restraint begin to blur, polished facades falling away. Art has loosened his tie, posture softened. Tashi’s shoulders have grown less rigid, one arm draped along the back of the booth behind her. Patrick’s hand rests loosely over your knee, thumb ghosting along the bone absently as he recounts some disastrous afterparty in Cincinnati. His version of events is so dramatic you wonder if he even remembers you were there to know otherwise.

You aren’t really listening, anyways. You’re focused on the way Art is looking at you. His expression is hard to read—not quite longing, nor regret. It’s something softer you can’t quite put your finger on.

Whatever it is makes you feel uncomfortable enough to remember the last time he was in your dorm all those years ago. You can picture it perfectly.

APRIL 8TH, 2007

Your room feels too crowded to have an argument in.

It barely feels big enough for the two of you when things are good. When Art would sit cross-legged on your bed with his back against the wall, trainers kicked off, explaining some minute adjustment to your backhand while you pretended to listen. When you’d steal his hoodie and argue it fit you better. When you’d both pretend you weren’t exhausted from practice just to stretch the night out a little longer. 

“How is she?” You ask. You didn’t mean to open with that, but there it is.

He sighs, standing in front of your desk. The distance between you feels cavernous. “Rehab started yesterday.”

“I know.”

Of course you know. Everyone does. It was all around campus, and all over the tennis network. Commentators were using words like devastating and tragic and career-altering. You can still hear the sound it made before she tumbled to the floor when you close your eyes, that piercing scream ringing out over the court.

“She’s in pain,” he continues. “They’re saying at least nine months minimum before she can even think about competing.”

Nine months. That’s a lifetime in sports.

“And?” You prompt.

“And she’s not taking it well.”

You almost laugh at that. No shit. Tashi had been built on momentum. She was always moving, always doing something, and now she can’t even walk without crutches.

“I’ve been over there most nights.”

“I know,” you repeat.

“You know?”

“I’m not stupid, Art.”

He shifts his weight, defensive already. You hate that you can already see it coming. “You haven’t been answering my texts,” he deflects.

You lift your gaze to him. “You’ve been busy.”

“That’s not fair.”

You let out a slow breath through your nose. “What part?”

He frowns. “I can’t just disappear on her because you’re feeling insecure.”

There it was. “Insecure?” You repeat incredulously.

“Yes. Insecure!”

You stand up quickly. “That’s what you think this is?”

“I think you’re making this about you.” Your chest tightens at the accusation. “Her career just imploded,” he continues, voice raising slightly. “She might never come back the same. And you’re upset that I’m helping her?”

“I’m not upset that you’re helping her.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m upset that it’s like I’m not even there anymore!”

“What?”

“You act like it, Art.”

“That’s not true—“

“Yes it is!”

“You’re imagining things.”

You hate that phrase. You have to fight the urge to just storm out of your own dorm at those words alone. “I watched you at the hospital,” you continue quietly. His mouth presses into a thin line. “You didn’t even realise I’d left.”

He looks away. “I thought you went to call your coach.”

“Yeah, I did. After I left.”

Art exhales sharply. “She was coming out of anesthesia.”

“I know.”

“She was scared.”

“I know.”

“She asked for me.”

“And you went,” you finish.

“What did you want me to do?” He asks, frustrated. “Ignore her?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know! Just… just remember that I’m there, maybe?” It sounds childish even to your own ears, words smaller than they felt. You want to tell him he’s been a bad boyfriend for months. That he’s not as committed to this as you are, and his priorities lie elsewhere. But in your anguish, all you can do is sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum about not getting enough attention.

Art runs a hand through his hair, agitation creeping into his voice. “You’re acting like this is some sort of love triangle.”

“Isn’t it?” You stare at him.

“No!” He denies instantly, eyes flashing.

“It always has been, I think—“

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” You challenge. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been waiting for an excuse.”

“An excuse for what?”

“To go back. Patrick’s out of the picture. Why the fuck not?”

His expression hardens. “I was never with her. And he has nothing to do with this.”

Never with her. Not officially, sure, but you’ve seen the way they move around each other since starting at Stanford. There has always been something simmering beneath the surface, but Tashi was with Patrick, and Art struck up a relationship with you shortly after. But you’d be blind not to recognise there’s unfinished business there following the Junior Open.

“I’m not in love with her,” he adds.

You hold his gaze. “Say it again.”

“I’m not in love with her.”

“You’re lying,” you laugh, an ugly and bitter sound, shaking your head. “No. No, I’m losing you both. Oh my god.” You drag your hands over your face in frustration. You refuse to let him see you cry, but you can feel it building up. 

“What?”

“You think this is about jealousy? I’m not that shallow, Art,” you say. “She hasn’t spoken to me since the surgery. She looks at me like I broke her knee myself.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

You’d gone to see her once, bringing flowers after her surgery. You remember trying to sit at the edge of her hospital bed like you used to sit on the floor of her dorm, legs tangled, talking about rankings and dreams and futures together. She’d barely uttered a word to you the entire time. The resentment had been suffocating.

“I can’t compete with an ACL tear, Art,” you say bitterly.

“You’re not competing.”

“I am! I’m always competing with her.”

“You’re twisting this because you want me to choose!”

“Yes.” It’s embarrassing to admit, but you are. Denying it would be futile. You love Tashi, maybe even more than he does, but you can’t put yourself through this any longer.

“I’m not doing that,” Art says, shaking his head. Your heart sinks, even though you expected that answer. “I’m not abandoning her.”

“I’m not asking you to abandon her.”

“You are.”

“No. No, I’m just asking you to tell me I matter more!”

“You do.”

“Then prove it for once!”

He falls silent. You can practically see the walls forming behind his eyes. The compartmentalizing and logic, trying to figure out a way to escape this conversation with both of you.

“You don’t trust me,” he says finally, and you hesitate, because you don’t know anymore. You want to trust him, but wanting can only go so far when he’s proven time and time again that she comes first. “That’s it.”

“That’s not it,” you say, trying desperately to salvage the results of an ultimatum you gave him.

“I can’t do this.”

“So- so, what? You’re breaking up with me, then?”

“I’m saying if you think so little of me—“

“This isn’t about thinking little of you,” you cut in. “But I know you, Art. And I know that if she was the one asking you to choose her right now, you would.” He doesn’t answer and you feel something inside you give way. “I can’t be second.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“Then I will be. As soon as she asks.”

Silence swallows the room. Distantly, you hear someone laughing down the hallway, a door slamming, and life going on outside your room while you’re stuck going in circles with this conversation.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, like that could still fix it.

“I know.” That’s the worst part. You know he loves you. You also know he loves her, and the difference between those two loves is about to ruin everything.

“Maybe this is just bad timing,” he offers.

You stare at him in disbelief. As if timing is why Tashi got injured on the court. As if timing hadn’t just exposed every crack that had been forming in your relationship for months.

“Yeah,” you force out. “Maybe.”

Art turns towards the door. You see him pause, and for a second you think he might come back. Might close the distance and kiss you and promise something concrete, and finally just choose you for once in his life. But he doesn’t.

His hand rests on the doorway. “I never meant to hurt you,” he says meekly.

“I know.”

Art leaves anyway, the door clicking shut behind him. In the quiet of your too-small dorm room, you’re left to realise that Tashi’s injury hadn’t just torn her ACL. It had torn straight through the middle of you and Art, too.

FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019

The memory dissolves like the sugar at the bottom of your wine glass. You down the rest of it. Art is still looking at you the same way he used to when he was trying to read your mind. You wonder what he sees now. 

Regret? Guilt? Longing?

“God.” Patrick leans forward suddenly. “Remember when we were Fire and Ice?”

Art groans immediately, his gaze falling away from you. His cheeks flush in embarrassment.  “Don’t.”

Tashi’s mouth curves upwards. “I liked it.”

“Of course you did,” Patrick says, ego stroked.

“It was juvenile,” Art says.

“Uh, no. It was cool,” Patrick corrects. 

You watch them fall back into that old rhythm like muscle memory. For a moment, they don’t look like two grown men with mortgages and press obligations and complicated wives. They’re just like two boys in locker rooms, convincing themselves the world isn’t ready to see how they play.

“You guys were insufferable. The entire junior circuit hated you,” you chip in.

“The girls loved us!” Patrick protests.

“You loved the attention,” Tashi says.

“You ate it up, too,” you say, shaking your head at her. “The two of them orbiting you like idiots.”

Patrick grins. “We weren’t orbiting—“

“Yes, you were,” you and Tashi say at the same time. It earns a shared look between you, instinctive, the kind that used to happen across nets or over dorm beds. You swallow thickly. Art notices. His smile fades slightly.

“US juniors,” your husband continues obliviously. “That final was brutal.”

Tashi’s gaze shifts to you. “You almost had me.” 

Almost. Like almost means shit in tennis. You remember the heat of it: screaming crowds, your legs trembling in the third set, the look of determination on her face opposite you.

“You broke me in the second. That was light work for you,” you say, injecting lightness into your voice.

“You let up,” she counters.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You always got in your head playing me. You could beat anyone else, but every time I was across that net, you doubled under the pressure.”

Your chest tightens, and you force out a quiet laugh. “You’ve always thought that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Art clears his throat gently, sparing you. “I liked the afterparty.”

Patrick laughs loudly. “God, what a night.”

You remember it too vividly. Tashi’s blue dress on the dance floor, fingers brushing against yours, two sets of eyes following your every move. 

“You two were practically chest-bumping over her,” you say, and you hate how bitter it comes out. You clear your throat, continuing lightly, “It was embarrassing to watch.”

“Competition,” Patrick smirks over the rim of his glass.

“It wasn’t like that,” Art says, rubbing the back of his neck.

His wife arches an amused brow. “No?”

He hesitates, and Patrick laughs again. “It was exactly like that.” There’s a beat of silence between you all, the memory hanging between you, before he braces his elbows on the table. “Remember what happened when we went back to the hotel?”

“Yeah. You knocked over an ice machine,” Art rolls his eyes.

Patrick waves a dismissive hand. “Irrelevant. I mean after.”

Your pulse ticks faster. “Wha happened after?”

Art closes his eyes briefly, because he knows where this is going. You’d made an excuse on the walk back from the beach. “I don’t want to be a part of your ego boost of a two-man, Tashi,” you’d laughed, shoving her up the path. “I’m too tired for that.”

“We kissed,” Patrick grins, lazy and unbothered. Art’s cheeks flush faintly red and Tashi catches your eye over the table.

“You what?” You say, feigning mild surprise.

Patric rolls his eyes. “Don’t act shocked. I bet she told you the morning after.”

“I’m not shocked,” you reply. “I just don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit it.”

Art exhales. “It wasn’t planned.”

Tashi’s lip twitches. “Nothing about that night was planned.”

“You didn’t seem mad about it,” Patrick says, looking at her.

“It was stupid,” Art adds. 

“And then you all went to sleep?” You ask. Tashi stifles a snort into her wine glass.

“Yeah,” Patrick affirms.

You lean back into the booth. “That’s not what happened.”

Both men look at you, puzzled. Patrick’s hand squeezes your knee questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“I went to her room,” Tashi clarifies. She doesn’t look at either of them, gaze fixed on you.

Art blinks. “Her room?”

“What, to brag?” Patrick laughs uncertainly.

You shake your head. “She said she couldn’t sleep. Said the adrenaline wouldn’t come down.”

“What does that mean?” Art’s throat bobs. Patrick’s expression shifts from confusion to dawning comprehension.

“Art,” Tashi presses, sending him an amused look.

“What?”

SEPTEMBER 10TH, 2006

By the time the knock finally came, you’d half-convinced yourself she wasn’t going to show. Too busy with her new entertainment for the night while you were left to huff and puff over your loss alone, your second-place trophy glinting mockingly where it sat on the hotel dresser.

You recognise the two deliberate taps to your door immediately, shooting up out of bed like you haven’t been agonising over it for the last hour. 

“Hi,” you say, trying not to sound breathless.

“Hi.” She leans against the doorway instead of walking in immediately. “Can I come in?” That part is new. Usually, she doesn’t ask. You step aside anyway.

She walks in slowly, eyes flicking curiously over the space. It feels like she’s already been here before. She has, sort of—different hotels, different rooms, the same agonisingly familiar pattern. By the end of the tournament, she’d always ended up in your bed at least once. 

“You played well,” she says, like she hadn’t told you the same thing hours ago. She runs a lazy finger over your finalist trophy and you groan, slumping onto your bed petulantly. You’ve tried not to look at it since you got back.

“You played better,” you shoot back.

“I know.” 

The lack of smugness almost makes it worse. She slips off her shoes and picks up your trophy to inspect, probably with the intention of getting a rise out of you, before perching on the edge of the dresser.

“How was your fan club?” You cross your arms.

Her mouth twitches. “Exhausting.”

“Poor you,” you say, lip jutting out in faux-pity. “It must be so hard having every boy in a ten mile radius in love with you.”

Tashi laughs. “They were arguing by the end of it.”

“Over you?” You huff a laugh despite yourself. Her amusement is infectious, regardless of how petty you’re feeling.

“Obviously.”

“And?” You study her face carefully.

“And what?”

“Did you have a good time?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She pushes off the dresser to sit on the edge of the bed instead, trophy abandoned, her palms smoothing over her thighs absentmindedly. Your eyes are drawn to the movement before you can stop them, fingers itching to reach out and touch that smooth skin yourself.

“We went back to their room,” she says. There it is—the thing she’d really come here to rile you up with.

“I assumed.” A beat of silence passes before you finally give in, pressing for more. “And?”

“You want details?” She tilts her head playfully.

“No.”

A small smile graces her lips. “They kissed me.” You nod once. “Both of them,” she adds. Your jaw tightens in a way that might be imperceptible to anyone else, but she knows you too well not to notice. “That bothers you,” she observes.

“No, it doesn’t,” you deny instantly. It does. A little. But not in the way it might have months ago.

“Oh, it so does.”

“Does not,” you insist. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she agrees. “I am.”

That’s always been the unspoken rule between you. Whatever happens in public—the flirting, the rivalries on court, the boys trying to get into either of your pants—it doesn’t follow you through the door unless she wants it to. 

“Did you have fun?” 

“A little.”

“Only a little?”

“You know how much fun I have with you.” Her fingers find your jaw, thumb smoothing out the slight jut of your lip. “Don’t pout.”

“I’m not—“ You start to argue, then give a reluctant huff. “You made me wait.”

“I was busy.”

“Yeah, I know.”

She laughs at the petulance in your tone. “Don’t roll your eyes at me. It was worth the wait, wasn’t it?”

“It will be if you kiss me already.”

She catches that hopeful lilt in your voice like a hook, and her smirk softens into something more tender. A second later, she crawls to straddle you, one leg on either side of your thighs. You suck in a sharp breath, fingers finally curling into the soft flesh of her thighs. And finally, finally, her mouth slots against yours.

You melt instantly. You always do. The whimper into her unbearably soft lips is undignified, her tongue sliding over your bottom lip before your brain can even catch up. It’s still maddeningly slow, and you make a quiet sound of protest when she pulls back to murmur:

“You really are jealous. I can feel it.”

The tease in her voice makes heat pool low in your belly. “Tashi,” you groan into the space between kisses, half-exasperated and half-desperate. You try to draw her back in for more, and she relents enough to bite playfully at your lip.

“That wasn’t a denial.”

Any witty protest is undermined by the gasp that her palming at your tits over your pyjama top draws out. Your hands slide up from her thighs to grip the back of the jacket she still hasn’t taken off.

“Why do you taste like tobacco?”

“Patrick smokes. They both do, actually.”

“Ugh. Gross.”

“Jealous,” she taunts again.

“M’not jealous,” you manage as she kisses her way along your jaw. 

“You’re kissing me like you want to eat me.”

“I do.”

She pauses, breath hot by your ear as she debates whether to take that literally or not. Then she leans back, unzipping her jacket to reveal no shirt underneath, just a skimpy little bralette that does nothing to conceal the way her nipples are hard with arousal. Your brows knit together.

“Why are you— no shirt?” You say eloquently, too starstruck by the sight of her breasts in your face to speak properly for a moment. “Was that—“

“For them?” She interjects, smirking down at you. You nod. “God, no. For you.”

Your stomach twists in a way that shouldn’t feel so appealing. She shrugs the jacket off, guiding your hands up to cup her breasts.

“You want to eat me, huh?” She teases. Another shaky nod is all you can muster. “Words. You were so good with them earlier.”

You don’t have it in you to glare at her right now. “Yeah. I do. Can I?” The way her breath hitches when you pinch her nipple over the thin fabric is more satisfying than it has any right to be. 

“How bad do you want it?”

You bite back a groan of frustration. Your brain is already fogged over, but you manage to make an attempt to sound less wanton than you actually feel. “Please, Tashi.”

She tsks softly, right on the playful side of condescending. “You can do better than that.”

A huff of impatience, and you fight the urge to pinch her nipple harder just to be a brat. Disobedience never gets you anywhere when she’s in a mood like this. The deal is whoever wins is in charge, and Tashi wins more often than not.

Not that you mind.

“Please, I need it,” you say, eyes shining pitifully up at her. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. You looked so hot on court. And at the afterparty, in that dress… fuck.” 

“Were you thinking about it when I was with them?” She presses.

“Yes. God, yes.” Your head thumps against her chest, mouthing at the stiff peak of her nipple over her bralette. “The last two hours have been torture. I thought you’d stay with them all night.”

She arches into you with a sharp inhale, fingers finding the back of your neck as you suck harder. By the time you pull back, the fabric is stained dark with saliva.

“Thought about it,” she says, just to see the look of offence on your pretty face. “I’m joking. Take it off for me.”

You obey without hesitation, fingers slipping beneath the underband of her bra to drag it up and over her head. It’s barely hit the floor by the time your face is pressed against her again, a sigh of longing slipping past your lips as they drag up over her breasts.

“You’re so beautiful.”

She seems pleased by the compliment—not in a smug way, either. A girlish sort of bashfulness that’s quickly quashed as her hand guides your head down to kiss her abdomen. “How about you show me how beautiful you think I am?”

You smile against her, nose nuzzling against her soft skin. “Yeah? Can I?”

She slides off your lap to stand, and you have to stop yourself from reaching for her. Instead, your fingers curl back into the sheets, waiting as her fingers hook into her shorts. She eases them down slowly, enough to make your mouth water and your thighs clench together in anticipation. When she steps out of them, her panties follow, an even more agonisingly slow drag down her legs until they hit the floor.

You lick your lips.

“Lay back.”

“Huh?” You reply, dazed.

“Lay back,” she repeats, amusement lacing her voice.

You scramble back to do as asked, hastily adjusting a pillow for your head as you settle against the mattress. You feel it dip before you see her above you, swinging a leg over your torso as she comes to straddle your chest. You’re granted with the sight of her sweet cunt, already shining with arousal. You feel like a dog inhaling the scent so eagerly, lashes fluttering, but she only grins down at you.

“This is supposed to be my reward for winning, but something tells me you enjoy it just as much.”

“Uh huh,” you hum in affirmation. 

And she’s absolutely right—you have no issue with losing every match if this is what you get. She shifts up higher, her knees braced on either side of your head, sinking down onto your face. Your eyes flutter shut, a muffled moan pressed against her when your mouth latches onto her. She’s always tasted divine. Good hygiene and diet, you imagine, or maybe you’re just so tragically in love with her that every part of her is like nectar.

“Fuck. There we go,” she sighs softly as you lap up into her. 

It should be a little humiliating just laying there, nose nudging at her swollen clit as she rolls her hips against your tongue. Once upon a time she was concerned about her supple thighs suffocating you when she took her perch above you, but Tashi quickly learned you were right where you wanted to be.

Your hands come up instinctively to hold onto her, but she smacks them away like one would discipline a dog. “No. You gave up today.”

“I didn’t—” You try to argue, though it’s hard with your face smothered in arousal and the folds of her cunt pressing against your lips every time you open your mouth.

“Yes, you did. Any time you lose your footing against me, you give up.”

Her hips shift again and you latch onto her clit, alternating between flicking your tongue and sucking as if that might make her disappointment in you fade away. It lasts about all of two minutes before another thought occurs to her.

“It’s your forehand holding you back. You roll it in when you should be driving through it. You’re not losing because you’re worse,” she says. You’re actually a little offended that she’s coherent enough to speak through her pleasure when you’re currently worshipping her pussy to the best of your ability. “You’re losing because you’re passive.”

Somehow, that jab digs its heels into your chest, and you have a feeling she’s talking about more than just the final today. Your head falls back against the pillow to breathe again, panting up at her. 

“... Are we still talking about tennis?” You ask, breathless.

She blinks down at you, caught off guard by the question. “We’re always talking about tennis,” she dismisses, right before her cunt hits your face again.

FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019

“—She used to call it sitting on her throne after she won,” you recall, laughing as you lean back into the booth. The memory warms your chest in a way the wine hasn’t quite managed to yet.

For a second, it’s just you and Tashi again. Not this table, not the wedding rings, not the years in between and the unanswered texts. Just her rolling her eyes at you while you both know she’s pleased to be talking about your time together again.

Next to you, Patrick is looking between you both with his brows drawn together, confusion sitting awkwardly on his face. Art’s expression is almost identical as he shifts uncomfortably.

“Wait, what are you talking about?” He says.

Patrick gives a short laugh beside you, though it sounds a little forced. “Is this an inside joke? You’ve lost me. Her throne?”

You glance between them, then back at Tashi. There’s a split second where you debate downplaying it to keep things neat and digestible… but the wine is doing its job. And so is the way she’s looking at you—dark eyes amused, a little daring, and it’s enough to push you over the edge.

“What? You guys didn’t know?”

Patrick’s confusion deepens. “Know what?”

Tashi leans back, completely at ease as her arm drapes back behind her husband again. “That I went to her room,” she says mildly.

Art frowns. “Yeah, you said that part.”

“And stayed,” she adds.

There’s a stretch of confused silence before you see the moment it clicks for them both. “Stayed,” Patrick repeats.

Art blinks. “You mean—“

“Use your words, Art,” Tashi says, lifting a brow.

“You… didn’t just talk,” he says stupidly, his throat bobbing.

You snort into your glass. “God, no. She might have left you both high and dry, but I got laid.”

Patrick barks out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. The thought of you, his wife, having a sexual history with his ex-girlfriend is both as baffling as it is thrilling. “No fucking way.”

“What? Is that surprising?” You glance over at him.

“Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yes, absolutely it is.”

Art is still processing, trying to figure out the timeline of it all. If you were sleeping with Tashi, and then Tashi dated Patrick, and you dated Art… the entire thing is confusing. “You guys—“ he gestures vaguely between you both, “—that was… a thing?”

“On and off,” Tashi shrugs, lips curving up.

“More on than off,” you add, unable to help yourself.

She shoots you a look. “Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m not!”

Patrick leans back in his seat, dragging a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his grin. “That’s crazy.”

“You never said anything,” Art says.

You shrug lightly. “You never asked.”

“That’s not—“ He stops himself, shaking his head. “I feel like that’s something you mention.”

“Why?” You counter. “You guys were busy with your own thing.”

There’s a flicker of something between him and Patrick, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, but you are. You share a look with Tashi over the table.

“We didn’t have a thing,” Patrick denies, though his mouth is twitching.

“Sure,” Tashi hums.

“We didn’t,” Art says, shooting her a look.

“Okay,” she says, clearly not believing him in the slightest.

“You shared hotel rooms for years,” you laugh.

“Because we were touring together,” Patrick says. “It was cheaper.”

“And?” You press, brow raised.

“And nothing.”

Tashi lets out a soft, knowing laugh. “Right.”

“Nothing happened,” Art denies again, jaw tightening just slightly. You almost feel bad, but the way he can’t meet anybody’s gaze—Patrick’s least of all—is just too endearing for your tipsy mind.

“Didn’t say it did,” Tashi replies smoothly.

Neither of you push it further. You don’t need to. The implication hangs there the same way the rest of your history together does: unresolved. Instead, you take another sip of wine, letting the tension settle into something playful again.

“Anyway,” you say lightly, “the point is—“

“That you ditched us,” Patrick cuts in, pointing a finger at Tashi good-naturedly.

Tashi just smirks. “I upgraded,” she replies haughtily, lifting her chin.

You choke on a laugh while Art shakes his head like he doesn’t know whether to chuckle or be annoyed. “That’s unbelievable,” he says.

“You survived.”

“Barely,” Patrick mutters. This time, you catch the faint edge of something beneath the humour. You don’t think it’s anger. More like curiosity. He’s always been more open-minded towards that sort of thing, and you have no doubt he would have gotten off to that knowledge if he’d been told sooner. Then he just laughs, shaking his head. “Jesus. My wife and my ex—“

“Your wife and your ex that’s also your friend’s wife,” you correct sweetly.

“Ex-friend,” Tashi chips in.

“You’re making this worse,” he bemoans.

Finally, Art joins in on the laughter. “This is a lot.”

“Welcome to the table,” you jest.

The laughter doesn’t die down right away. Patrick’s raucous as always, and a nearby couple glances over in mild irritation, but none of you care enough to quiet down. For all your anxieties about tonight, you’re glad it got to this point where the past isn’t a sharp, fragile thing to be danced around. Now you can joke about it without feeling hollow inside.

Some time later, another round of drinks appears—this time something stronger, in four little glasses. You don’t remember anyone explicitly ordering it, but Tashi thanks the waiter like she did.

“Shots?” Patrick says, already reaching.

“Absolutely not,” Art replies immediately.

“Yes,” Tashi counters at the same time, and he looks surprised. You have a feeling it’s unlike her new polished self, the Tashi on all the billboards and sports magazines, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“Oh, come on. Just one,” you say.

“You too?” He says, sending you a betrayed look.

“Don’t be a bore.” You nudge the glass towards him, and he relents with a sigh.

“Patrick’s a bad influence on you.”

Tashi watches the exchange in amusement, then lifts her own glass. “To terrible decisions.”

“To terrible decisions,” you echo.

Patrick’s glass clinks against yours before he downs it. The burn hits fast, and you wince, sputtering out a laugh as you set the glass down. Patrick coughs dramatically at your side.

“Jesus—what the hell is that?”

“Expensive,” Tashi says lightly.

“Of course.”

She leans back, stretching slightly, then glances around like she’s just remembered where she is. “This place is boring.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” you laugh.

“Exactly.”

Patrick nods immediately in drunken agreement. “Too polite in here. Everybody looks like they have sticks up their asses.”

“It’s a restaurant,” Art points out.

“And we’re done with it,” Tashi decides, rising to her feet before anyone can argue.

“We are?” You blink up at her.

“With the restaurant? Yes. With the night? No.”

“What does that mean?” Patrick says.

She picks up her wine glass, tipping her head back to gulp down the rest of it. “Let’s go somewhere more interesting.”

“Like where?” Art replies warily.

Mischief sparks in her brown eyes. “Where do you think?”

The journey to her hotel room doesn’t take long. Across the street, up the elevator, all of you cramped together and giggling. You cling to Art’s arm as you stumble down the hall on their floor, and you don’t even realise it’s not your husband until Tashi laughs at you. She doesn’t seem to mind, though. Just loops her arm through yours and tells Patrick to hurry up as he lags behind.

When you get into the room, you make a beeline for the arm chair, slumping down with a sigh. “Take my shoes off for me.”

“Take them off yourself,” Patrick groans, collapsing onto the bed. 

Art and Tashi are a little more dignified, not that you’re surprised. Art shrugs off his jacket to hang up while she takes off her heels next to him.

“There’s wine in the fridge if you want any,” she offers.

“I think I’d die,” you lament, leaning forward to clumsily unbuckle your heels. It takes a moment to get them off before you stretch out your legs, wiggling your toes. Patrick’s face down in a pillow now, a silence falling over the room. Then you sit up suddenly. “Do it for me.”

“Do what?” Art says, peeling his tie off.

“Recreate it.”

“Be a bit more specific, babe,” Tashi indulges with a laugh. The pet name makes your heart stutter.

“The… the hotel thing. The three of you.”

Patrick lifts his head, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

“Like, when I wasn’t there. Pretend I’m not here and it’s the night of the Junior Open.”

“Well, we just drank shitty beer and sat around the floor,” Art says, a little uncertain, though he’s smiling over at you with flushed cheeks.

“No. No, not that part,” you say, waving a hand. “The kissing part. You said you all made out.”

“What? No,” he laughs.

“You don’t have to,” you shrug, though your tone suggests otherwise. “Just thought it’d be funny.”

Tashi watches you. She knows you well enough to hear what you’re not saying—that it’s not just curiosity, not just a joke. “Funny,” she echoes, amused.

Patrick swings his legs off the bed, sitting up fully now. “C’mon, man. For old time’s sake.” Nobody seems surprised that he’s up for it without question.

“This is a terrible idea,” Tashi snorts.

“Everything tonight has been a terrible idea,” you point out, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. “Are you going to give me a show or not?”

She seems amused by your drunken confidence. Art looks to her questioningly—a lap dog, even now—before she nods. “You heard the woman. Give her a show.”

She moves to sit on the bed, patting either side of her. Art hesitates, but just like in 2006, as soon as Patrick moves he’s right there with him. Both of them bracket her sides, hands in their laps, the smell of alcohol heavy on their breaths. Tashi glances between them both, before her gaze settles back on you.

Suddenly, it feels a lot more real when they’re all in front of you. You exhale heavily, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. “It was like this?”

“Mmm. They were both so desperate.”

“Who’d you kiss first?” You can’t help but ask.

Tashi smiles, turning her head. Patrick leans in slightly, breath ghosting over hers, but she turns before their lips can meet. Her mouth finds Art’s instead. He kisses the same way you remember—a little tentative at first, before his confidence builds and his hand finds her thigh, his kisses growing more fervent.

When she finally breaks apart and turns to Patrick, you find yourself unsettingly okay with it. A part of you thought you would have been jealous. You’ve been married to Patrick for four years, dating for even longer, and yet now your stomach is twisting with arousal at the thought of him kissing her.

He doesn’t ask for permission. As soon as her head turns, his mouth is on hers. He’s hungrier than Art, not just because they haven’t kissed in years. It’s how he always kisses. Sex with Patrick always feels like some all-consuming kind of lust, and your brain feels foggy watching Tashi shudder when his tongue shamelessly slides against hers.

You find your gaze flicking curiously towards Art for his reaction. He doesn’t seem as off balance as you would have thought, though that might be the alcohol talking. He’s just as enraptured by the sight of the pair of them devouring each other, his hand still squeezing Tashi’s thigh. 

A string of saliva connects them when they break apart, and you wet your own lips. “So this is it? You just made both of them take turns kissing you?”

Art turns pink before she can reply. “Do you really think I’m that boring?” She laughs. She leans back, head tilted ever so slightly to expose her neck. And while she makes eye contact with you, Art and Patrick lean in, kissing along opposite sides of her neck. 

It’s not shocking—nothing about tonight has been shocking, really—but it makes the wetness building up between your legs worse. The part that really undoes you is Tashi’s eyes staying on you. It feels like this isn’t just a reenactment for your benefit. It’s like you’re part of it, even from across the room. Always part of it, even back then.

A quiet exhale escapes her when Art’s grip tightens on her thigh, thumb pressing in unconsciously under the slit of her dress, while Patrick’s hand slides higher along her arm, fingers curling at her shoulder. They don’t look at each other, but they’re aware of each other. You can see it in the way they move: careful not to collide, but not exactly avoiding it either.

“Shit,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

Tashi’s mouth curves faintly at the sound. “You’re looking between them like it’s a match,” she says.

“Feels like one,” you swallow thickly.

She huffs a quiet laugh, breath hitching slightly as Patrick’s mouth presses just under her jaw, teeth grazing boldly. “And who’s winning?”

Your gaze flicks between the three of them, slower now to take it all in properly. “You.”

“Always,” she replies. 

Her hands lift to find their jaws, guiding them back upwards. Your breath catches, fingers curling into the plush arm of your chair when their mouths meet together. All three of them. It’s a strange sight, all of them alternating between lips and tongues, but it makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest nonetheless.

You aren’t sure how long it goes on for before she leans back again.

“You know what to do,” she prompts both men.

Art blushes furiously, ready to protest. “Tashi—“

“Art.”

His complaint dies on his tongue. Patrick is smirking, though you aren’t sure why until it becomes clear what you know what to do means. He leans across her, where Art hesitates for a moment before he does the same. Your jaw almost drops when they kiss, and Tashi grins at the delight in your eyes. 

You’ve never been blind about Patrick’s attraction towards men. He’s ogled them shamelessly for years, and you’ve always had your suspicions about how close he was with Art. Tashi made more than enough jokes at Stanford about teenage boys sharing beds during their formative years turning out a certain way.

It’s a different thing entirely to see him making out with a man. Especially when that man is Art, who’s still a furious shade of red but melting into the kiss. It’s drunk and sloppy, but it might be the single greatest thing you’ve ever seen. 

You don’t realise Tashi’s talking to you until she says your name. Dazed, you manage a, “Huh?”

“I said don’t you feel left out?” She repeats.

“Well—” You swallow, shifting a little so your thighs press together. “I’m having fun watching.”

“You’d have a lot more fun kissing me.”

It takes you aback, but you’re nodding your head eagerly before you can really process it. You almost trip on your discarded heels in your haste to get up. Tashi slides back from between the two men, ignoring their questioning look. 

“You look nice tonight,” you offer clumsily when you sit next to her, tongue feeling thick in your mouth.

“Nice?” She laughs, hand settling on your knee to give it a comforting squeeze. “You used to call me beautiful.”

“Well, you were. I mean— you are,” you correct yourself.

“Don’t get shy on me now. You were so confident ordering us around,” she teases.

“She’s always like that,” Patrick chips in. Art’s panting against his jaw, pressing kisses every now and then while trying to keep his gaze on the pair of you. “So bossy but as soon as she gets a little attention, she doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Tashi snorts. He rolls his eyes, tilting his head back to catch Art’s mouth again.

“You’re beautiful,” you repeat, softer now, as she cups your jaw with her other hand. Her expression shifts slightly into that bashfulness you’ve missed so much. It boosts your confidence enough for you to lean in first, closing the distance like you’ve done a hundred times before.

It’s soft at first, slipping back into something that feels like it never really went away. You hear Patrick make a low, amused down somewhere behind you, but it’s distant. Everything is, except the way Tashi’s hand slides to the back of your neck, steadying you.

“You see? Wasn’t that hard,” she murmurs against your lips.

You huff out a quiet laugh, breath catching. “Shut up.”

She smiles into the next kiss, a little sharper this time, more like the version of her that thrived on pushing you. It pulls a soft, involuntary sound from your throat before you can stop it. The hand on your jaw tips it gently to the side so she can kiss her way along your cheek and to your ear. When your eyes open, you’re met with the sight of Art in the same position, your husband’s mouth sliding down his neck while one hand works at the top few buttons of his shirt.

“Do you miss him?” She breathes, low in your ear.

“Mmm?”

“Art. Do you miss him? Miss kissing him?” she continues, biting the lobe of your ear playfully. “Miss fucking him?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, shivering when she licks a stripe down your neck.

“Invite him over, then. I’m sure he misses kissing you, too. I know I did.”

You call his name, but it comes out more of a moan than anything when Tashi sucks against your neck. She stifles a laugh. “Art,” you repeat, a little louder. He looks towards you, pupils blown wide. Whether it’s from arousal or the alcohol, you can’t tell. “Come here. I want to kiss you.”

Art obeys, despite Patrick’s groan of protest, though your husband follows him across the bed. Tashi continues to lavish your neck with attention while Art leans in with that same hesitance before melting into you. Your drunken mind deduces that he tastes better than Patrick. Not that Patrick tastes bad, but you’re used to kissing someone who tastes of tobacco, not just wine and traces of mint. 

“Man, this is like a wet dream,” Patrick sighs.

“We should probably stop while we’re ahead,” Art adds half-heartedly, though he doesn’t stop kissing you.

“Yeah? You want to stop?” Tashi reaches across, fingers sliding between his legs to palm his bulge. His breath hitches against your mouth.

“No. No, I’m just saying…”

“Stop talking. Don’t ruin this for me,” Patrick says.

So Art doesn’t. Clothes start to come off in pieces, entirely uncoordinated. You’re half-laughing and half-serious in a way that only happens when there’s too much history and too much alcohol in the room. Patrick tugs at the hem of your dress like he’s done a hundred times before, a bit distracted, his attention splitting between the three of you. 

Tashi doesn’t hesitate, though. She moves between all of you the way she always has, slipping her hands under fabric, pushing shirts off shoulders and guiding more than asking. 

You catch yourself laughing at something—nothing, really—as Patrick loses his balance trying to step out of his shoes, collapsing half on top of you and mouthing at your shoulder instead of getting up again. 

“God, we’re a mess,” you say, breathless. “I really want to fuck you, though.”

“You fuck him all the time,” Tashi says with an eye roll, her fingers currently making quick work of Art’s belt.

“No. No, I mean all of you.”

And she’s about to take you up on that offer when her phone buzzes where it was discarded near the head of the bed. Tashi freezes, brows furrowing slightly. “Hold on—“ She says, already reaching for it.

“Don’t tell me you’re taking a call right now,” Patrick groans against your shoulder.

“It’s probably important,” Art adds, though you can tell by his frown and the bulge in his pants he’s just as disappointed as Patrick.

Tashi looks at the screen, her expression shifting. “Oh my god.”

“What?” You ask, sitting up a little straighter and shoving Patrick off. He collapses into Art instead.

She turns the phone around without a word. It’s a photo, bright and blurry, taken by someone with too much enthusiasm. A card smeared in glitter and doodled hearts, with a grinning little brunette holding it up to the camera. Scribbled across the front, it reads:

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY MOM!

For a second, everyone is quiet. Then you laugh, not because it’s funny—though you suppose it is, in a way—but because the contrast is so absurd it knocks the air right out of you. Patrick follows a second later, loud and incredulous.

“Are you serious? Right now? This is why we haven’t had kids,” he laments. You smack his arm, but you’re still laughing.

“That’s—shit. That’s timing,” Art exhales his own laugh.

“I told her I’d call her before bed,” Tashi huffs, but she’s smiling down at the screen when she turns it back to her.

“Well, that’s one way to kill the mood,” Art says, glancing around at the half-undressed state of all of you. 

“Speak for yourself,” Patrick mutters, adjusting himself shamelessly.

“No, I think that’s pretty definitive,” you laugh, tugging the straps of your dress back up. Your heart is still hammering in your chest.

“Probably for the best.” Tashi meets your eyes, something warm flickering there again. There’s a quiet agreement in the room, unspoken but shared. The tension doesn’t disappear entirely, but at least none of you are groping each other anymore.

“I need water,” Patrick declares.

“Same,” Art says, and the pair of them shove at each other on their way to the fridge, sporting matching tents in their slacks.

You watch them, lips curving up faintly while Tashi texts her mom back. Some things change, some things don’t.

“Hey,” you say lightly, looking back at her. “Tell her I said happy Valentine’s.”

Tashi glances up at you, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I’m not sure how to explain who you are, but I will.”

The night ends less explosively than it might have had things continued. But when Tashi settles back next to you, phone extended to show you the picture again while Art and Patrick bicker behind you, you don’t think you’d change a thing.

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It’s the type of wedding children dream of. But there’s two people who clearly couldn’t give two shits about the white roses or the music being played as your friend walks down the aisle: the groomsmen. One blonde and one brunette, the latter of which is clearly bored of this entire thing, tuning out what the priest has to say and letting his eyes wander.

“Patrick, pay attention,” Art hisses under his breath from where he’s standing behind Patrick, and in clear view of his friend’s lack of interest in the upcoming vows. Considering the congregation makes up of several hundred people (who are definitely just here for the reception and Instagram stories), it’s embarrassing for him to be associated with a disinterested fool.

“Oh, I’m paying attention,” Patrick mutters back, with a low whistle that makes Art wince. “Just not to Adam and his gold-digging bride.”

Despite initially feeling the need to jump to their friend’s defence and insist he was perfectly capable of finding a wife—Megan was lovely, as far as Art was concerned—that train of thought vanishes as soon as he follows Patrick’s gaze to the opposite side of the altar. Standing behind the bride and her maid of honour, one of the most beautiful women he’s ever had the privilege of laying eyes upon… you.

He’s not sure how you manage to pull off the bridesmaid dress that the rest of the poor ladies seem to be drowning in, but god, you look gorgeous. A vision in pastel pink, even with that hideously large flower embellishment clinging to your left shoulder. Maybe Patrick had been right about Megan being a bitch for the last two years; nobody who loves their friends willingly puts you in something like that. And yet, against all odds, he’s ready to drop to his knees and worship you right here on the chancel. A true angel, illuminated by the mural of Mother Mary shining through the window. How anyone is paying attention to the bride when you’re standing right there clutching your bouquet of flowers is beyond him.

Patrick’s thoughts are far less pure, of course. Daydreaming about the sound your dress would make when he tears a slit up the back to see what colour your panties are. Fisting his hand in your hair and pulling those ringlets out of your pretty little flower pins, because why would you need those to hold it up when he has a perfectly good hand right here? Bent over the altar, crying out his name like he was your god, and not the Christian deity Father John was currently droning on about watching over Megan and Adam’s nuptials.

Both of them are half-hard in their slacks by the time they hear the priest rejoice, "You may now kiss the bride." Neither of them mention the way they adjust themselves in sync while stepping down to congratulate their friends and take wedding photographs.

Art gets to stand beside you in the pictures. He tries to make small talk about the happy couple, but his throat feels like it's closing up and he already knows he's going to look flushed in the picture album by the end of this. He swears he almost passes out from embarrassment when you regard him with a pitiful look as he stammers over his words trying to tell you he thinks your hair looks lovely.

If the looks Patrick keeps sending his way are any indication, he's royally screwed this up. And that little smirk he flashes as you rush off to gush at the viewfinder suggests he is absolutely going to pay for that fumble later.

He does.

—

"Dibs," Patrick announces, nursing a champagne flute and eyeing you from the opposite side of the reception venue.

Another intricately decorated hall with a local, well-known DJ Adam has connections with. Neither of them would care about the music if it weren't for the fact you looked so fucking good swaying your hips and grinding against another woman to Don't Cha by The Pussycat Dolls. They don't have girlfriends, but yeah, if they did... they'd wish she was hot like you.

"I talked to her first," comes Art's instant protest. He's already downed three glasses by now to quell his nerves, but it's only serving to make him more antsy. At least he probably won't remember any of this come morning.

"Yeah, and look where that got you," he snorts in return, mimicking the pity grimace you had given when Art restarted his sentence for the fifth time. That deflates Art's sails somewhat, and he mutters something about his friend being a dick under his breath.

"Fine. Go talk to her, then. I'll just sit here all by myself and wallow in my own self pity at a celebration of love. Knowing I am forever doomed to be alone."

Patrick shoots him a flat look for that, and Art visibly deflates. Yeah, that was a little dramatic, but he's tipsy and moping about how socially inept he is when it comes to pretty women at weddings. Give him a break.

"Nah, she'll talk to me first. We've been making eyes at each other for thirty minutes. I don't have to do anything."

"So... you aren't going to go talk to her?"

Given Art perks up a little at that, Patrick should probably be a little more sceptical. But he just shakes his head, sipping from his champagne and watching you laugh and excuse yourself from twirling around the floor with that other bridesmaid.

"Cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool…” Art hums in reply. Patrick doesn't even get the chance to reply before he's shooting off across the venue to catch you by the refreshments table.

Oh, that's how he's playing this. But Patrick said he wasn't going to talk to you, so it's his fault, really. That's how Art justifies it to himself as he dodges and weaves through dancing couples, tripping over his feet a few times in a bid to get to you.

"Does dibs mean fucking nothing to you?" Patrick hisses as he catches up to Art, just as the pair reach you.

"Hey," Art slurs, a lopsided smile on his face as he pointedly ignores his friend's complaint. "You look... really beautiful. I know I told you that earlier, but you're like... an angel."

Smooth, Donaldson. That's Patrick's queue to swoop in and save him from embarrassment, while hopefully pulling you in the process. He's not above knocking his friend down a few pegs if he really has to, though.

"We've never seen you before," Patrick says, giving you a quick once over that's far more appraising than it ought to be. It's hard not to blush and match the pretty pink alcohol-induced flush on Art's cheeks. "Friends with Megan long?"

"Uh... yeah," you reply, a little sheepish, plucking a h'ordeuvre from the table as you glance between the pair of them. Art isn't sure if you're wary or just amused. "We go way back."

"Really?" Art says, blinking. "Adam's never mentioned you before. Which is weird because he never shuts his—"

"So she's been keeping you a secret from us, then?" Patrick cuts in. God, his best friend gets so mouthy when he's tipsy. He's more of a lightweight than his fucking grandma. At least Nana can tolerate a few eggnogs without running her mouth.

"We just have conflicting schedules," you smile. "Not teenagers anymore, you know?"

You don't mention the fact you've hardly had contact with Megan since her twentieth birthday, where she deemed your gift lacklustre and cut you out of her social circle over the following weeks. Maybe that attitude is why she had been so desperate to have you as a bridesmaid in the first place—nobody else would stick around to deal with bridezilla.

"What about you and Adam?" You add a moment later, when both men giving little hums of acknowledgement. You pretend not to notice the way Art downs the last of his champagne as liquid courage before he gives his answer.

"Well, Adam's been our—"

"My friend since I was a kid," Patrick interjects again. Art sends him a look of inebriated betrayal, but the brunette is too busy eyeing up your cleavage as he talks to take much notice of it. "Our parents work together. Art's a groomsman because he's an extension of me. Fire and Ice, right, bud?"

A little nudge to Art's side, who looks thoroughly dejected at the depiction of his relationship with Adam. And the fact he's just come off as Patrick's little sidekick. So fucking unfair.

"... Right," he mutters.

"Fire and Ice? What's that?" You offer, in the hopes it'll brighten his spirits. It seems to work.

"We're tennis players. That's our nickname. A little childish, but we've been called that since we were kids."

"So you've known each other a long time?"

"Since we were twelve. Bunkmates at tennis camp," Patrick chips in helpfully, crooked grin permanently plastered on his face as he eyes you intently.

Well, they certainly have the build for it. Not that their suits leave much on display, but you can still see the way Art's muscles strain a little against the sleeves—his suit clearly isn't as tailored as Patrick's—and the way Patrick's ditched his bowtie to unbutton a few buttons of his shirt to give you a peek of his chest hair. And if the way he keeps reaching for h'ordeuvres to give him a peek of your ass every time he leans around you is any indication, that view is definitely intentional.

"So... which one's Fire, and which one's Ice?" You ask, glancing between the pair with a tilted head. Art seems eager to reply with a genuine reply, because he's just tipsy enough to actually be comfortable with you now, but Patrick speaks up before he can open his mouth.

"Why don't you find out?"

And, despite your better judgement, you intend to take him up on that. Spending the next hour at the reception taking candid photos and alternating between dancing with the pair of them; two gorgeous men on your arm, each equally as eager for your attention as the other. Suddenly, the last few months of Megan's temper tantrums feel worth it.

Not to mention you never expected Art to be able to breakdance. Five champagnes in and he's tearing up that floor, a far cry from the man who blushed crimson when the photographer asked him to place his hand on the small of your back after the ceremony.

—

When you all get a little too tipsy, they offer to walk you back to your hotel. You're all staying in the same one, anyways. It's no hassle. No point in sticking 'round here. Party would be boring without you. You can't remember which one of them told you that, but it was flattering nonetheless. Adam placed all of the bridesmaid's on the same floor, insisting it was the least he could do, but Patrick... well, apparently he has a presidential suite, so how could you possibly deny him when he offers to show you? That's the only reason you're going up to their room. Couldn't be anything else.

You trail in after them, heels hanging from your hand as you take in the sight. You're pretty sure this place is bigger than your entire apartment. Hell, the complimentary wine and gift basket on the table probably cost more than one month's rent for you.

"You look like a kid in a candy store," Patrick remarks, lips quirked up into a little smirk as he watches you ogle the sight. Both of them shrug off their jackets and abandon them on two armchairs, leaving you another sight to ogle.

"This place is... nice," you manage, eyes trained on the way Art is removing his cufflinks and rolling his shirt up to his elbows, muttering something about it being way too hot in here before collapsing into one of the arm chairs.

You almost make a remark about how it'd be considerably more tolerable if he just took the shirt off entirely, but Patrick beats you to that idea. Peeling off his own shirt and grinning to himself like a fucking idiot when he catches a glimpse of you admiring the way the muscles in his back flex as he moves. He even gives an exaggerated stretch and a groan to really seal the deal.

You have to take a seat and squeeze your thighs together after that.

"Nice is an understatement, babe," he replies. Babe? He's ballsy. Art is just drunk enough not to mask the exaggerated roll of his eyes he gives at Patrick's choice of words.

The three of you pop open that expensive bottle of wine and pass it around for another thirty minutes (with Patrick gradually giving Art less and less time to hog the bottle the drunker he gets), chatting about Adam and his stupid wife Megan and their stupid wedding. About tennis, and your own career, and who you think is going to win the Olympics this year or whether there are really aliens in the ocean. The kind of stupid shit drunk people discuss just because the conversation is as seemingly bottomless as the wine bottle you're drinking. You somehow manage to persevere throughout it all without staring at Patrick's chest too much.

"Well, I should probably go," you say, standing up (just a little wobbly on your feet) and offering a grateful smile to the pair of them. "Definitely going to be nursing a hangover in the morning."

"Wait—" They both protest in sync, sitting up.

You tilt your head at them, questioning.

"Aren't you going to sleep with one of us?"

Well, that's tactful, Zweig. Art reaches over to smack him up the back of the head, sending you a wordless apology in the form of a wide-eyed look, like a dog that's about to be scolded. But you take it in your stride, laughing as you pick up your heels.

"I don't want to pick between you. Seems mean," you reply. And you don't think you even could choose.

"You don't have to pick between either of us," Art says hastily. Even Patrick seems to be surprised by that. They've joked about sharing girls for years, ever since the Kat Zimmerman incident, but he never thought Art would be the one to actually suggest it. He averts his eyes when Patrick is searching for a towel after the shower, for Christ's sake.

But Patrick recovers quickly.

"Yeah," he chips in. "Don't you wanna find out which one of us is which?"

That gives you pause. Right. Fire and Ice. And judging by the victorious look they share at your silence, all of you are aware of the decision you've subconsciously made.

Your clothes don't take long to disappear. A tangle of limbs backing up into the master bedroom (Patrick's), hair pins discarded in a bid to yank your head back and mouth along the expanse of your neck, both men in just boxers before long. Touching each other in ways that are far from platonic but they'll both blame on alcohol and wanting to get the three of you undressed as quickly as possible.

"This is really ugly. I'm sorry," Art tells you candidly, as you straddle him on the bed. His fingers are tracing the large pink rose pinned to the shoulder of your dress, and you bark out a surprised laugh. The pair of you are giggling like idiots between kisses, insulting Megan's taste in bridalwear before there's a loud tearing sound, and suddenly you can feel the humid air hitting the back of your thighs.

That's Patrick. Doing the things he's fantasised about since he first saw you at the altar and ripping up the back of your dress to reveal your underwear. God, they're even better than he expected.

"Patrick, what the fuck—" Art starts, but his friend makes a kissing sound through his teeth.

"What? She said Adam paid for it. It's fine," Patrick mutters. "Besides, it was so fucking worth it. You should see the view back here, man."

His fingers trail over the dampness of your panties, the lacy white just as pure as Megan's wedding dress. If he wasn't already hard in his boxers (he has been since you entered their hotel room), he certainly is now. Pushing the fabric of your dress further out of the way and leaning in to lick a stripe over your panties, a low groan slipping past his lips at how soaked they are just from kissing. You would be embarrassed but... double the men, double the wetness, right?

Your hips jerk involuntarily at the sensation, a pair of matching moans escaping you and Art as it grinds you down against his clothed erection.

"I don't think Megan would be very happy you wore white on her wedding day," Patrick says, smiling against your clothed cunt as you push back against him.

"Fuck Megan," you reply breathlessly.

"No, fuck you," he shoots back. And he very well intends to. Both of them do, actually, given the way Art is whining and arching his back off the mattress in an uncoordinated attempt to get any friction against you. He's pretty sure he might cum untouched just from the sheer anticipation of it all.

Your panties go next, lost to the heap of the rest of your clothes on the floor. It doesn't take long for strong, calloused hands to rest on your ass, spreading you open so he can tongue-fuck your pussy. Mumbling something unintelligibly about how you taste even better than the wedding cake while your whines synchronise with Art in between sharing lips and spit. Stubble grazing your face and your ass, all three of your mouths too busy for any more wisecracks.

At one point, Art tries to snake his hand in between you and rub your clit, but the front of your dress is still in the way. He still makes the effort to roll his fingers against it over the fabric of your dress, and the sound you make in reply tells him he's at least contributing somewhat to the mess Patrick is making of you. He's content enough to just lick into your mouth greedily and swallow the keening sounds you're making.

"Cumming—" is all you manage to gasp out between kisses before you're clenching around nothing, and Patrick is lapping dutifully at your release. All three of you are groaning like the orgasm is shared between you. It's only when you're bordering on overstimulation and letting out pathetic little whimpers that Art realises he's still circling your clit on autopilot, and his hand falls back to grip the sheets.

"God, she's so fucking pretty when she cums," he moans, and you'd be offended by the fact he's talking about you like you're not here if you weren't so blissed out. "You should have seen her face, Pat."

"I'll see the next one," Patrick says.

Next one? Both a promise and a statement. Just hearing that has you whimpering as Art eases you off of him. Both of them help you out of your dress, a little more gently this time, and you have to ignore the comment Patrick makes about no bra, just for me? You don't have it in you to explain built-in cups and the power of pasties to a man right now. You just want to get fucked. It's only then, when you're all spread out and wanting on the bed, that you realise the wet patches in their matching black boxers (cute, you think) are just as vivid as the one that no doubt stains your lost panties.

"Jesus, you're big." You didn't mean to say that out loud, but you're in too deep to be ashamed about any of the events transpiring right now.

"Which one?" They both ask. The question goes unanswered when you start palming them both through their boxers, a chorus of moans elicited from the pair of them. (You all know the answer, anyways.) Hands grabbing at whoever they can touch, whether it's you or each other, until Patrick has the sense to yank down Art's boxers.

The protest dies on Art's tongue when he sees the way Patrick is eyeing his cock, flushed red tip glinting under the harsh hotel lights with the amount of pre-cum smeared across it. There's a moment where you all think he's going to touch him, wrap a hand around his closest friend's pretty pink dick and jerk him off, but then he simply shrugs off his own underwear. You aren't sure which one of you is more disappointed.

Everything is a haze from then onwards. You can vaguely hear them discussing positions as you kiss at Art's neck, red lipstick mottling his pale skin until it's hard to tell which stains are makeup and which are hickeys.

"We can't ask her to do anal, man. We hardly know her."

"Why not? I bet she'd like it. Fucked in both at once."

"Because that's... it's violating!"

"Oh, right. Because whatever else we're about to do won't be. Real innocent, vanilla sex with three drunk people in our fucking hotel room."

Fucking hotel room. The double-meaning of Patrick's own words makes him snort. The only reason they stop whispering back and forth is because you pull away, settling on all fours. Back arched in a silent invitation, pretty little ass stuck up in the air and arms braced against the silk sheets. They glance at each other, before scrambling to follow, with Art shoving Patrick aside to press himself behind you.

"Why do you get her pussy?" Patrick protests, sitting up and fixing his best friend with an indignant look.

"You said you wanted to see her face when she cums!"

Fuck. He did say that. Stupid logic. Well, it's not as if your throat would be unpleasant; he wonders if your mouth will be as welcoming to his cock as it was his tongue.

"C'mon," you whine, pressing back against Art's throbbing arousal. "Can one of you just do something?"

"D'you want me to use a condom? 'Cause my wallet is in my jacket in the next room—" Art starts, but you're already reaching back to guide his tip between your slick folds. Well, that's an answer if he's ever witnessed one.

Patrick is too busy getting situated in front of your face to make a comment about filthy girls taking it raw. Art's almost disappointed—he'd never be brave enough to make the comment himself. One large palm cupping your face, tilting your head up while the other slaps his cock against your lips. Whatever gloss they'd kissed off was replaced in a new sheen, one that makes him give a soft hum of approval.

"You look pretty," he tells you, and your thanks dies on your tongue when Art pushes into you. Easing himself in inch by inch, until you're practically drooling onto Patrick's tip. "God, what a fucking sight." For a moment, his eyes are on the way Art's face contorts in pleasure at the tight warmth surrounding him. It's even hotter than the way he looked when they used to jerk off in the same room at night.

"Open wide," he instructs, eyes flitting down to you. Smiling down at you with that shit-eating little grin and talking to you like you're at the dentist, not getting spit roasted after your friend's wedding. "Big girls take it all, right?"

You oblige, though—how could you not, when your senses are clouded by Art drilling into you from behind? A few more slaps of his cock against your tongue, and he's pushing himself in, too. His breath catches in his throat as the warm wetness of your mouth envelopes him—yeah, definitely just as welcoming.

You can hardly tell who's moaning at this point. There's something almost beautiful in the synchrony, the way your hands and bodies move against each other. Clutching at Patrick's hips, while he fists your hair, admiring the way the ringlets spill through his fingers like a waterfall as he pushes you down further; gagging at the intrusion in your throat while Art whimpers behind you like this is his first time getting pussy. Each of you are in your own individual heaven, while simultaneously in ecstasy together.

"Good fuckin' girl, just like that—"

"Oh, Pat, she's so tight—"

A hand slaps against your ass, and you can't tell who it belongs to. Patrick seems like the most likely culprit, given how sweet Art had been earlier, but with the way he's ramming into you like a jackhammer leaves you doubtful. It doesn't really matter, though—they both know you enjoyed it, given the way you garble out a moan around Patrick's dick. You don't know if you're praying for mercy or for more.

He lets you come up for air occasionally, telling you how pretty you look taking Art's cock. Such a good girl, before you're being degraded for letting him fuck your throat like a slut. There's no time for arguments before his tip is at the back of your throat again, the sound of your gag reflex going off hardly audible over the sound of moaning, wet slapping and skin hitting skin.

You think you know now. Fire and Ice.

Art reaches around to rub your clit at some point, slurring, "want you to cum first. You deserve it. So fucking good for us."

Patrick makes a sound of disagreement, tightening his grip in your hair as his hips begin to stutter. Not because you aren't being good for them—you're so fucking perfect—but because he wants to be able to see and hear you properly when you cum. He doesn't have the vocal capabilities to voice that aloud right now, though, so he just continues to thrust eagerly past your swollen lips until his climax hits him. You'd be worried about the obscene slew of noises coming from Patrick's hotel room if it weren't a presidential fucking suite. God, why does that make this so much hotter?

He groans out your name—or maybe it was Art's?—as he releases, holding your head in place to ensure it's all aimed down your throat. The salty taste isn't foreign to you, but you still grimace. Patrick takes it as an expression of pleasure, though, withdrawing from your mouth and leaning down to press his lips against yours in a fleeting kiss.

"You can cum," he murmurs. You weren't asking for permission, but you nod anyways. Art's grunts of exertion are the loudest sound in the room, the occasional whine slipping past his lips when your cunt squeezes harder around him. Slick fingers circling your clit until he feels you convulsing around him.

You mewl with pleasure, bowing your head forward, your arms and legs threatening to give way from your arched position. But Patrick catches your chin and tilts it upwards, watching the way your eyes roll back as Art fucks you through your orgasm and your spit-slick lips part around his name. “Art, fuck, yeah—“ It's only after Art announces his own climax with a low moan and collapses on top of you that Patrick is kind enough to wipe the drool coating your chin away.

It's all a bit of a blur after that. Shared kisses between the three of you in the darkness when the light has been switched off—sometimes between Art and Patrick, though neither of them have any intentions of acknowledging it. Gentle caresses against sweaty skin as you lay tangled in Patrick's queen-sized bed, praises whispered aimlessly into the quiet of the humid night.

—

You're gone by the time they wake up. A walk of shame back to your own hotel room in a shirt borrowed from one of their suitcases (you don't know which), mourning the loss of that ugly dress you wanted to sell on eBay afterwards to cover dinner for the month. Neither of them speak of the events that occurred the night before until after breakfast has been ordered and Art has taken several pills for his hangover, eating room service on the same chairs you all sat on last night, their jackets still strewn across the back of them.

"I think that was better than either of us getting laid alone," Art comments, poking at his egg with his fork. Both of them are littered with hickeys, but Art bears the worst of it. He's pretty sure most of the marks came from cuddling with Patrick in bed afterwards, but he’s too afraid to mention it. Not a can of worms he wants to open right now.

"Yeah?" Patrick prompts, with a knowing little smile. Even tired and hungover, Art has enough wits about him to know that something is up. He narrows his eyes, dropping his cutlery onto his plate and sitting up straighter.

"What?" He demands.

"Nothing."

Art leans forward. "There's obviously something, Pat."

"Just... when have I ever not approached a girl I wanted?"

It takes a moment for Art to really process what that means. Last night was a pleasurable, drunken haze, but he does remember Patrick's words in the reception hall. It makes sense now—that bullshit about Patrick waiting for you to approach him.

... Manipulative little bastard. That doesn't stop Art from replying with: