#challengers fluff

It had been one week since he’d last seen you—your shimmering tail vanishing between the swells, the haunting echo of a melody that he still wasn’t sure he’d imagined. He remembered salt clinging to your skin like glittering jewels, hair wet and tangled, a flash of fear in your eyes when you saw him again—and then, just as quickly, you were gone.

But not from his thoughts. And certainly not from his heart.

And it had been two weeks ago that he first met you, accidentally, sure; but Art felt like it was meant to be.

The storm had torn across the sea like a wrathful god. His ship was nothing more than driftwood against the waves, sails ripped to shreds, crew screaming as thunder split the sky. Art barely remembered the fall. Cold water. The weightlessness of drowning.

Then—your voice.

Soft. Wordless. A melody that curled around him like silk.

He didn’t remember being pulled to shore. Only warmth. Gentle hands. And a flicker of a face he couldn’t forget. Something about your presence felt otherworldly. Sacred.

When he awoke on the sand, coughing up seawater, he swore he saw a silhouette—half-submerged in the waves, watching.

And when he blinked, it was gone. But Art knew you were real. And so, every morning since, he walked the shoreline, heart aching with a strange kind of hope. He even started talking to the wind and waves.

“If you’re out there… I want to see you again,” he said one day, kneeling beside a tide pool. “You saved me.”

Behind a jagged outcrop of stone, you watched him—hidden, breath caught in your throat. You had no reason to keep returning. Your place was beneath the sea, in the palace of coral towers and pearlescent spires, where your kind warned never to touch the surface world.

But you had touched it—touched him. And something about this Prince made your heart flutter in a way even the tides couldn't.

The next day, Art brought a gift. A seashell—small, pink, perfectly spiral. He placed it near the edge of the water and said softly, “For you. If you’re real.” You didn’t come out. Not yet.

But when the morning tide rolled in, the shell was gone. And in its place, Art found a shimmering silver scale nestled in the sand.

He held it to the light, breathless. “You are real.”

And so began the silent exchange. Every morning, he brought you something: a braid of ribbon, dried lavender, a carved wooden dolphin. You gave him sea-polished glass, sun-bleached coral, pearls hidden in moss. It felt like courtship. Like something blooming without words.

But you never dared let him see you again.

Not yet.

You watched from behind rocks, or from beneath the surf. His laugh carried on the breeze, and you’d press your fingers to your lips to keep from smiling too wide.

Because yes… you’d fallen for him, too. The boy with the soft eyes. The prince who walked the beach like he belonged to the ocean. Who never shouted. Who never hunted. Who sat with his hands buried in the sand as if it were sacred.

You longed to be close.

And one morning, you were.

You stumbled onto shore just before dawn, limbs shaky, the world spinning. You were drenched, cold, wearing only a cloak made from cast-off sailcloth. Legs. You had legs now. They burned with every step, unfamiliar and fragile. But they were yours.

You had practiced words underwater—though your voice had already been given away. A price you’d paid willingly for legs. For love. You followed the dunes and collapsed into the tall grass, trembling. You weren’t sure what you had expected.

But you hadn't expected him to find you so quickly.

Art saw the footprints first. Small. Bare. Leading from the tide toward the dunes. His heart leapt into his throat as he broke into a run, following them.

And then he saw you. You sat curled in the grass, face hidden by your knees, salt crusted on your skin. “You…” he said softly, breathless. “It’s you.”

You looked up, wide-eyed.

You recognized him. And he recognized you.

The same soulful gaze. The same impossibly delicate features. Only now, you had legs instead of fins. A new body. A new shape. But still—you. He knelt in front of you slowly, offering no threat. “You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re here.”

You opened your mouth, tried to speak—but the words wouldn’t come. Just silence. A terrible, hollow silence. You reached for your throat, eyes apologetic.

“No voice?” he asked. You shook your head. “Can’t speak… at all?”

You nodded, heart sinking.

Art’s face softened. “Hey… hey, it’s okay,” he said, reaching out gently. “You don’t need to talk. Just… come with me. Let me help.” You hesitated. Then, slowly, you placed your hand in his.

It was warm. Steady.

And everything changed.

He carried you to the seaside cottage hidden along the cliffs—a royal retreat, unused by nobles. There, he wrapped you in soft blankets, brought warm water for your aching feet, and gave you the clothes off his back.

You explored the room with wide, curious eyes. You touched everything—the velvet curtains, the smooth marble table, the woven rug like seaweed spun into clouds. You sniffed fruit like it might bite you. Tasted bread like it was treasure.

He watched, completely enchanted. And when you smiled at him—tired but full of wonder—it stole his breath.

Weeks passed.

Art taught you to walk along the shoreline, one careful step at a time. You fell often—but always into his arms. He laughed each time, not out of mockery, but joy. You’d laugh too—soundless but full-bodied. Eyes scrunched, hands gripping his shoulder like an anchor.

He taught you how to use ustensiles, what a book was, you had even met his childhood dog, Max.

At night, he’d read aloud to you on the balcony—stories of stars and gods and far-off lands. You leaned into him, content, the ocean below singing the lullaby you’d lost.

Art began to realize he didn’t mind if you didn’t or couldn’t talk to him. Because he understood you anyway. Every tilt of your head. Every brush of your hand.

He could read your heart.

One golden evening, you stood in the surf again, now steadier on your feet. The sun painted your skin in rose-gold light. Hair tousled. Cloak fluttering in the wind. Art watched you from a distance, then approached. “You’re not going back… are you?”

You turned to him. Shook your head. “You gave up your voice to be here,” he said softly.

You nodded. The truth sat heavy between you.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” he whispered, stepping closer. “I already loved you.” Your breath hitched. You reached into the pouch around your waist—woven from sea-thread—and pulled out the pink shell he’d given you long ago.

You placed it in his hand and then gently pressed your forehead to his. Your way of saying yes.

Yes, you loved him too.

Two weeks later, the kingdom buzzed with whispered rumors. The prince was engaged—to a mysterious foreign noble, found washed ashore. No one knew your origin. But you wore the sea in your eyes. And though you never spoke, your presence filled every room.

Some said it was magic. Others called it fate.

Art simply called it love.

He never once asked you to speak. He never tried to undo the sacrifice you made. But he promised, on quiet walks along the tide, that one day, he’d make a world where you wouldn’t have to give anything up to be loved.

Each evening, you walked the shoreline together—your fingers laced with his. Sometimes, you picked up shells in silence. Sometimes, you just listened to the wind.

But always, you walked together.

Two souls—one from land, one from sea—drawn together by something deeper than water. Deeper than magic.

You weren’t even doing anything—just sitting cross-legged in the library, headphones in, scribbling notes from a textbook bigger than his head.

Whatever the hell it was you were studying. Economics? Engineering? Fuck, for all he knew, it could’ve been interpretive dance theory. He never bothered asking. Didn’t care enough to.

All he could think about was how your skirt rode up every time you shifted, how your thighs pressed together under the table, the faint shadow between them. 

He shouldn’t even be here. Not like this. Not after losing, with sweat still dried salty on his skin, clothes clinging damp under his arms, hair sticking up in every direction from running his hand through it too many times. He’d walked straight off court, barely pausing to spit on the baseline in disgust, keys jingling in his pocket as he stormed off to find you.

He needed you – needed something soft to bury himself in, something sweet to erase the taste of failure burning hot and bitter in his chest. The taste of losing to some seventeen-year-old recruit with bright eyes and a perfect backhand.

Maybe there was something sad about a guy pushing his mid-thirties, unemployed and hanging around a campus library waiting for his college fling to finish studying.

But Patrick had lost worse things than dignity lately.

Like his last match, only hours ago – a brutal, humiliating defeat that left his body aching and his head throbbing with every thump of his pulse. He hadn’t even showered yet, just thrown on jeans and hoped for the best.

He’d left the court with his racket dragging on the ground, sweat soaking through his shirt, half-blinded by the sun and rage.

Now here he was, watching you, hoping you’d fix it. Hoping you’d scrape him off the concrete floor of his ego just long enough to feel like a man again.

He’d blown through most of his trust fund – dog racing bets, whiskey tabs, overpriced trainers he convinced himself would fix his footwork. His apartment was month-to-month now, his car insurance lapsed, and his last match ended with a towel over his head, forehead pressed to his knees in the locker room, listening to the sounds of his opponent celebrating two rooms over.

So.

What do you do when you’re broke, your dreams have turned to dust, your best friend is with your ex, and deep down, you know you’re one of the best to ever play the game? 

You hook up with a college student in the middle of Summer. Sticky, burning, California July.

Jesus Christ, if Art saw him now.

You were his early midlife crisis—not that scandalous of an age gap, he had, what? A decade at most? But the new scruffy beard he was trying out certainly didn’t help with the sideways looks from his neighbors when you showed up. Young, pretty, wide-eyed and curious—like you didn’t belong in his broken world, but maybe you did.

Patrick hummed under his breath as he walked over, planting his hands heavy on your shoulders. You gasped in surprise, hand flying to your mouth to stifle it, until you felt his lips press against your bare skin, dry and warm and scratchy with beard burn.

“Hey, kid,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly with sleep and old cigarettes. 

“Jesus, Patrick,” you panted, letting out a breathless laugh as you calmed down. A few people glanced over, frowning at the older guy hovering over your chair. “You scared me.”

You blinked, really looking at him now. Patrick. In a library. Eyes flicking over the sweat stains on his collar, the dark circles under his eyes. “What are you doing here?” 

Great question. What were you studying today? International Relations? Criminology? He really should ask.

“Just… was nearby,” he lied, voice light. “Thought I’d pop by. Maybe take you out to the food court. On me, huh?” He nudged your shoulder, as if he was really outdoing himself by paying for a $3.50 churro.

You scoffed softly, eyes narrowing with that knowing look that always made his chest twist uncomfortably. Like you could read him too well. Like you saw straight through to the rotting wood underneath all his charm.

“What?” he asked lightly, feigning innocence.

“Nothing. Nothing.” You paused, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sure, I’d love to. Give me, like, five minutes? Just need to finish this chapter.”

Patrick slumped down into the chair beside you with a sigh, ignoring the two other students across the table giving him dirty looks.

He turned his body fully towards you, resting his chin in his palm, eyes locked on your face like he didn’t care about the awkward tension suffocating the little group. He never pursued this college life.

Never liked the lecture halls or cheap beer or pretending to care about someone’s major. But he liked watching you. That much was obvious.

You tried to push down your smile, but it bubbled up anyway, making it impossible to focus on your reading. He loved how easily girls like you got flustered by a bit staring.

“Patrick,” you mumbled without looking up.

“Mm?”

“Stop looking at me,”

He let out a long, dramatic sigh, tapping the table lightly with his palms before slinking back in the chair, legs spread out carelessly. His eyes flicked up, meeting one of the other students’ glares, and he gave them a tight-lipped, dead-eyed smile until they quickly dropped their gaze back to their notes.

It wasn’t long after that you closed your textbook with a quiet thud, slipping your headphones around your neck as you packed your bag. He tried to catch the title on the spine as you packed it away, but you were too quick. His brain flitted to the next thought quickly, uncaring.

Patrick watched every movement like he was memorising it. Like he’d forget what you looked like if he blinked too long.

“Ready?” you asked softly, slinging your tote over your shoulder.

He didn’t answer. Just stood up with a grunt, hand pressing against his knee as he rose. Fuck, when did standing up start hurting?

He slung an arm lazily around your shoulders as you both walked out into the brutal heat of the California summer afternoon.

Outside, the air felt thick and humid, clinging to your skin like sweat. Patrick’s shirt was damp at the collar, sticking to the back of his neck. He smelled like sun-warmed cotton and stale deodorant, his beard scratchy against your temple as he pressed a lazy kiss there.

“You eat today?” he asked as you both crossed the cracked concrete quad towards the food court. The sun burned down, white-hot against the pavement, making him squint.

“Not really,” you replied, squinting up at him as the wind caught your hair. “Been here since like… eight.”

“AM? Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head as he guided you through the crowd. “What’re they feeding you, huh? Slave wages for education and all that.”

You snorted lightly, and he grinned down at you, his thumb brushing idly against the thin strap of your top where it sat against your shoulder. Then, without a word, he slipped the bag off your arm, slinging it over his own shoulder with exaggerated ease.

It was out of character for him. He never bothered with this gentleman act unless he wanted something. And you could feel it in the way his fingers lingered a moment too long on your skin – like he was trying to remind you how easy it would be to just give in.

Patrick had been around the block. Men, women – didn’t matter. They were all the same. They just wanted to feel wanted. Valuable. And he could give them that. At least, when he wanted something in return.

He carried your bag the rest of the way, glancing over at you every so often with that same sly little grin. Making sure you saw. Making sure you remembered he could be sweet when he wanted to be.

The food court was mostly empty at this hour, the lunch rush long gone and the dinner crowd not here yet. Patrick bought you both greasy churros with the last crumpled bills in his pocket, sitting across from you in the sticky plastic booth, legs spread wide like he owned the place, even though his hands were still shaking from the match. 

Even though all he could think about was how badly he needed to touch you – needed to feel your skin under his palms, warm and alive and his.

You bit into your churro as he watched you, tongue darting out to catch a fleck of sugar from your lip. His eyes followed the movement, hungry in a way that made your thighs clench together under the table. 

You both knew he wasn’t here to play the nice boyfriend, which he can play too well for your taste.

“What?” you asked, voice quiet, almost shy.

“Nothin',” he said, leaning back and stretching his arms out along the booth bench. The pose pulled his shirt tight across his chest, exposing a flash of pale belly and the dark trail of hair leading down. “It's hot, isn't it?”

Great. Now weather talk.

You watched him for a moment, chewing slowly, eyes narrowed just slightly. “You’re acting weird,” you said finally, voice quiet but firm. “Like… 'you're my boyfriend' weird.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he licked sugar off his thumb. “How's that weird? Is that a bad thing?” A beat, as he tilts his head a bit at you. "You change your hair?"

“Oh, come on,” you replied, leaning back against the cracked vinyl seat, moving your hand to touch your hair. You hadn't done anything different. “You show up out of nowhere, kiss me like you missed me, carry my bag, pay for my stupid churro… What's your angle?”

His smirk faltered just a fraction, his eyes flicking away to the food court windows before landing back on you. For a moment, he looked tired. Older than he usually let show.

But then he chuckled softly, shaking his head. “No angle, kid.”

You frowned, studying the line of his jaw, the tired slump of his shoulders, the dried salt stain of sweat on his collar.

"Maybe I just missed you," He hums. "Hair looks good, you should do it like that more often."

You could accept a bit of that. You had missed him too, even if you wouldn't admit it to him. You knew he would use it against you in some way. And he knew you'd never use it against him.

You clear your throat, trying to hide the small smile he caused. “Well, I haven’t seen you in a while. You been alright?”

He furrowed his brows, scratching at his temple like the question physically itched. “What’re you talking about? Saw you…” He paused, thinking. “What? A week ago?”

“Two weeks,” you corrected softly. “Usually you text if you wanna see me. Just… did something happen?”

Patrick hummed low in his throat, his eyes flicking over your face before drifting away. He let out a sigh, shoulders sagging slightly.

“Nah. No. Just… felt like seeing you, s’all.” He lied easily, hand reaching out to yours where it rested across the table, thumb brushing over your knuckles. So soft, he thought distantly. Like butter left out too long in the summer heat.

You raised your brows, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, you let out a quiet scoff. “Okay…” 

He sensed the shift instantly—the way your hand stiffened under his, your back straightening against the vinyl seat. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, eyes darting away for a moment. 

“How’re exams?” he asked, the question sounding foreign in his mouth. Small talk. Fucking pointless. But wasn’t that what guys your age did? Asked about classes, essays, your future.

Be the good boyfriend, he told himself. Pretend you care.

You shrugged, fingers drifting to your necklace, twisting it idly. The chain dipped low between your collarbones, catching his eye for a long, unashamed moment. His gaze lingered there before dragging slowly back up to meet yours. You noticed, of course you did. But you didn’t call him out on it. You never did.

“Fine. Stressful,” you sighed, your voice softer now. “I’ve been needing a break. I’m… glad you’re here. I didn’t mean to be… accusatory, or anything.”

He let out a short breath, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off your words. “Don’t worry about it. Forgiven.”

You're aren't exactly sure what you're forgiven for.

He doesn't elaborate, just leans back in the booth. A silence settled between you, thick and pulsing, your unspoken wants buzzing just under the surface.

His patience was wearing thin. He didn’t care about your exams, your readings, your neat little colour-coded notes. That wasn’t what he was here for.

“C’mere,” he said after a moment, voice dropping lower.

You frowned, confused. Your eyes flicked around the deserted food court, noting the underpaid student workers had retreated to the back. “Patrick…” you warned softly.

“C’mere,” he repeated, firmer this time.

You slid out of your seat, slipping into his side of the booth. He angled his body towards you immediately, hand coming up to cup your cheek as he kissed you, slow and deep. You tasted cinnamon sugar on his tongue, felt the coarse scrape of his beard against your jaw as he tilted your head back to get better access.

His other hand slipped under the table, fingers skimming up the inside of your thigh. You gasped softly against his mouth, eyes fluttering closed as heat coiled low in your belly.

“Lost today,” he rasped against your lips, voice thick with exhaustion and something desperate. His thumb brushed slow, heavy circles along your jaw, grounding himself. “Played like shit. Couldn’t stop thinking about you. Couldn’t… focus. Just wanted…” He trailed off, pressing his forehead to yours, his breathing ragged. You felt him tremble – just slightly – under your fingertips where they curled into his thigh.

You swallowed, your breath hitching as he tilted your chin up to look at him properly. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed pink with sun and sweat and something you couldn’t name. 

“Think you can… help me out, huh?” he rasped, the edge of a smirk playing at his lips as his fingers skimmed higher up your thigh. “Be good for me… make it all go away, yeah?”

You let out a shaky breath, pulse hammering so loud in your ears it drowned out the hum of the fluorescent lights above. He had you exactly where he wanted you. That was the thing about girls like you – and you knew it, god, you knew it too well – all it took was him saying he wanted you. Even if it wasn’t really you he was thinking about at all.

Because this was humiliating. Your friends were right when they called you stupid for hanging around him – some sweaty, unemployed, uneducated older guy with dark circles and dog-eaten sneakers. A man clinging to the last flicker of something he used to be. 

But for Patrick, you were just a blip.

An easy detour on the way back to Art and Tashi, a stop-gap to scratch whatever itch he refused to name. And for you… you weren’t sure what he was. A distraction. A secret. A sweaty summer sin that made you feel raw and alive and so, so ashamed. 

But when his thumb hooked under the thin cotton of your panties and he pressed closer, smelling like cheap soap and stale deodorant, all you could think about was how good it felt to be wanted like this.

Even by someone like him.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice cracking in the middle. “Yeah… okay.”

Patrick smiles at that, that shit-eating grin. “Yeah?”

You nod, maybe too quickly.

As you got up, he followed, his hand drifting down to your ass with a lazy confidence, like he couldn’t help himself, as he guided you to your dorm room.

You felt the sun on your back as he guided you across the quad, his palm splayed warm and rough across your ass like it belonged there. He didn't bother to carry your bag this time. He got what he wanted. The heat rose from the pavement in shimmering waves, making you dizzy. 

You could smell the sweat on him now – sharp and salty, cut with cheap soap and stale deodorant – and your thighs clenched involuntarily with each step. 

He walked half a step behind you, his fingers slipping under the hem of your skirt every chance he got, the pads of them tracing circles on the tender skin there. People passed by. Students. Workers. 

Nobody looked twice. 

He bent down, lips brushing your ear as you reached your dorm steps. “Gonna let me fuck this loss outta my head, yeah?”

You swallowed hard, fumbling with your keys. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”

You’d see him for the rest of August. He’d come by after games, after drinks, after whatever the hell else he filled his days with. Always sweaty, always tired, always pressing kisses to your neck before you could even ask how he was.

When he won, he didn’t really see you at all. He’d scroll through his phone endlessly, thumb flicking up and up and up, waiting for a text from Art. Or maybe a call from Tashi, just to hear her say “Good game.” Just to feel, for a second, like it still mattered. Like he still mattered.

He never got anything, of course. But that didn’t stop him from waiting for it, staring at the screen like it owed him something.

You were there for the losses. That’s what you were for.

Nobody got his wins. Those he kept close, selfish, private – like if he shared them, he’d lose whatever little power he still clung to.

But when he lost? When the rage roiled under his skin, bitter and hot and ugly?

That’s when he’d come to you. That’s when he’d push into your room without knocking, drop his bag on the floor, and pull you into his chest so hard it almost hurt.

That’s when he’d kiss you like he needed to feel anything at all.

And you let him. Every single time.

Because there was still that part of you – the lonely, hungry part – that liked being needed. Even if it was only for this.

If you tried to tell him about exams, he’d just hum distractedly, hands already sliding under your clothes, murmuring into your skin, “Yeah?… Smart girl. 'Ts why I like you.”

And for a moment – just a flicker – you almost believed it was enough.

You’d fall for it every time. Because what else were you supposed to do when he was looking at you like that, touching you like you were the only soft thing left in his rough, crumbling world?

Then one evening, as August wilted into September, he sat you down on your own bed – the bed he’d fucked you in a dozen times without ever really seeing you.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “Listen, kid… you know this wasn’t gonna be forever, right?”

Your stomach twisted. You opened your mouth, then closed it. Nodded instead. Because of course you knew. You’d known since the first time he kissed you like you were a secret he planned to bury.

“It’s not you,” he said softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek with practiced tenderness. “It’s me. I’m… I’m just in a real fucked-up place right now. You deserve… y’know. Someone better. Someone your own age.”

He smiled then – that crooked, pitying smile – like he was doing you a favour by leaving.

You tried to speak, but he was already standing up, grabbing his bag from where he’d dumped it by your door. He didn’t look back as he left, just raised a hand in a half-hearted wave, saying over his shoulder,

“Take care, yeah? Don’t work too hard on all that… whatever it is you’re studying.”

The door clicked shut behind him. You sat there, staring at your open textbook, the words swimming as tears pricked at your eyes.

(part 2)

the only sound left in the diner is the click of the lock, the overhead lights long since turned off, just a strip of light coming from the kitchen as art finishes his closing shift.

'doll?' he calls, 'where you hiding?'

you giggle, the rush of trespassing finally sinking in. 'i'm here.'

art holds out his arms like a zombie, moving slowly through the diner and groaning for additional effect, till his muscly arms wrap around yours and pull you close, as you let out a squeal of delight, giggles never ceasing.

'found you.' he murmurs into your hair with a cheeky grin, resting his chin atop yours as the two of you sway slowly in the darkness.

intertwining his calloused fingertips with yours, art stepped back, outstretching his arm so he could reach out and kick the jukebox crumpled in the corner, which jolted, coming to life and starting to play some 60's romance song.

you gasp in surprise, smile stretching from ear to ear as art spins you back into his chest, 'i thought that thing was a goner.' you shake your head in disbelief, 'god knows how many times i've had to tell kids off for wrestling with it'. you frown at the memories, anger resurfacing.

'you know i think it's super hot when you get mad...' art teases, his palms rubbing up and down your arms as he smirks deliciously.

you wrinkle your nose, 'seriously, weirdo?' and he laughs, a proper bellowing laugh that makes his chest vibrate against yours.

'seriously.' he says, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, 'your face gets all flushed and you get all indignant and huffy.' his smirk only widens when he notices your expression, 'like you're doing right now... face it doll, i think you're hot.' he purrs all sultry.

'i'm shocked.' you reply, deadpan. 'the dozens of times i've been back to your place gave me no hints whatsoever.' you shrug your shoulders.

'oh really?' his laugh reverberates around the empty diner again, echoing. 'no hints at all?' art beamed as his hands slid down to palm your ass.

you shake your head, doe-eyed as you feign ignorance. 'i was beginning to think you hated me.' the jukebox had started to skip, out of sequence lyrics fading into the background as the two of you stared at each other, swaying still across the diner.

'hated you?' he whispered, those two words reverential in his mouth as he slowly lifted you up, and you had no choice but to wrap your legs around his waist, feeling his belt buckle press against your thighs.

'hmm hated you?' he repeated as if musing on the idea, kissing you again adoringly, and you squeezed tighter as he carefully walked backwards towards the kitchen.

'you'll drop me!' you squeak as the kiss breaks.

'will i?' he grunts playfully as he hoists you higher and you scream, gripping onto him like you'll fall off a cliff if you let go.

'what? a guy can't show off?' art teases, taking one arm off you just to flex his muscles and you screech, squeezing even tighter, 'stop it-'.

'baby- baby- i can't breathe-' he splutters as you, arm coming back to hold you again. he laughs breathlessly, 'you're such a scaredy cat!' as he deposits you unceremoniously on the steel countertops.

'no, you're just an asshole.' you pout, eyes narrowed.

'oh it's like that tonight, huh?' art chuckles, kissing at your jawline, trying to get you to crack.

'maybe.' you grumble as his kisses grow more feverish.

'mmm...' art's smirk makes his teeth brush against your cheek and you shiver, 'c'mon doll, don't you wanna know why we're still here?'

you blink, as if it's just occuring to you. 'why are we still here?'

'oh, now she's interested.' art teases, flicking your nose and you stick your tongue out at him childishly.

'tonight madam, you're going to have the most romantic night of your life.' he says in a terrible snooty french accent and you have to laugh, which only spurs him on, 'after your romantic dance with a very handsome fellow, the chef will prepare your favourite, pasta on a bed of tomato sauce and fresh meatballs followed by delicate chocolatey squares.'

'so it's spaghetti and brownies? you're making me spaghetti and brownies.' you smile joyfully, flattered that he knew your favourites.

he nods mock sagely, 'yes madam.'

'and we couldn't do this at your place because....?' you tilt your head to the side.

'because! my place does not have half as good cookers and...ingredients are expensive.' he says casually, brandishing a packet of pasta.

you press a quick kiss to his lips. 'thank you, monsieur.' and you don't miss the slight blush on his cheeks.

opening the wine fridge, art pulls out a bottle of red, 'and for the lady?' he holds it out to you.

you snigger, nodding. 'why not?' is your reply as you reach for a glass, your fingers enclosing around the stem.

he pours with practice, the alcohol swirling round the glass that it almost looks like a shot from an ad campaign. you take a sip and your eyes widen with delight, 'why are we selling this to customers? we gotta keep this to ourselves, it's delicious!'

art barks out a laugh as he takes a sip from his own glass, 'something tells me that'll be a hard sell for the manager.' you swat at him playfully, his laughter continuing as he dodges you downing the remainder of your glass and pouring another, lacking his earned gracefulness.

for a while, the only sounds in the kitchen comes from the crackling of the flames as art boils the pasta, and the knife hitting the chopping board as he dices onions. you watch him with soft intrigue, he's so different when he's cooking, the cockiness melts away from him and he's more measured, and yet free.

'alright...i'll bite.' you half-slur, second glass of wine nearly done. 'why are you here?'

art shot you a look of confusion before turning back to the pot, 'what do you mean, doll?'

you let out a small groan, 'i mean...you like cooking, you're not some old creep or a teen who's always out drinking and just wants money, why are you a line cook in a shitty diner?'

art's sigh is disguised by the sound of meat sizzling as it hits the grill, 'um...i didn't get into culinary school.' there's a long pause but you don't say anything in response. 'so...i scrounged around, got this job, got my apartment and never left i guess.' his voice is smaller than you're used to, an ache in his voice that suggests a wound that hasn't healed.

'i'm sorry, i didn't know.' you reply quietly, staring a little too intently at the countertop like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

'why would you, baby?' art says in an attempt at lightness but it feels forced. 'i don't like to talk about it.'

the words hang in the air for a while before he continues, 'you next, why are you a server in a shitty diner?'

you shrug, 'i needed a job.' you sip your wine as you think it over, 'i dropped out of college and i'd never been a server before so why not?'

'why not?' art echoed with a chuckle as he shoved a tray of brownies in the oven.

'what's so funny about that?' you frown slightly, reaching for the bottle of wine again.

'you dropped out of college for why not?' his brow furrowed, tone strangely firm.

'no! i dropped out of college because i hated my course, and the people, and the lecturers, and the accomodation, and the workload and-' you reply briskly, a challenge in your eyes.

'yeah okay i get the picture.' art cuts you off with a raised palm.

'there's not enough jobs for graduates, let alone dropouts.' the haughtiness in your voice shocks you, like he'd personally offended you.

'all i'm saying is...' art murmurs as he slides a plate across the countertop towards you, 'plenty of people would've killed to go to school.'

'well i'm not one of them' you snap, affronted. 'okay doll.' he comes round and slots himself between your legs, cupping your face with his calloused hands, stroking your cheek with his thumb. 'now will you try the pasta?'

you relent as art reaches for your dish, twirling spaghetti round the fork and bringing it to your lips, which you part, letting him feed you tenderly.

'do you need me to get you to chew too?' he teases, hand moving to your jaw.

you shoot him a playful glare as you chew and then swallow, eyes lighting up. 'holy shit'

art perks up like a puppy, 'it's good?' his voice hopeful as he reaches for his own plate.

'so good!' you say eagerly, going in for another forkful, 'it tastes just like my grandfather's, how did you know?' you squeak with delight, mouth half full.

art smiled, a proper rare true smile, before winking at you. 'i'm just that talented, baby.'

'oh you are!' you insist adoringly, 'culinary school is missing out.'

art's smile softened slightly but didn't dim. 'thanks baby.'

after a beat, you're eyeing your plate as an idea starts to form. 'i've always wanted to try this.' art's brow furrows as you pick up a spaghetti noodle with your fork. 'bite that end'.

art sniggers, 'doll, that's a movie- it won't work-'

'bite. it.' you hiss warningly, art rolls his eyes and begrudingly takes the noodle end in his mouth, looking every bit as stupid as he knew he would.

gingerly, you place the other end of the noodle in your mouth and start to suck, art mimics you and the two of you get closer and closer to his lips meet yours in a hungry kiss, mouth parted as you swallow the remainder of the noodle before your tongue collides with his. art groans in pleasure, pressing harder against your body between as your fingers tangle in his hair. the kiss grows more feverish, his arms around your waist before the oven beeps and he breaks away, breathless.

'happy now, doll? got your moviestar kiss?' he pants teasingly as he pulls the brownies out.

'very happy.' you grin cheesily, your legs swinging off the counter as he takes the empty pasta dishes aside.

'i'm not feeding you a brownie. no way.' art says with joking firmness as he hands you a plated brownie.

'yes boss.' you reply jokingly, teeth sinking into the dessert and your eyes light up again, 'it's the perfect texture! just how like it, cakey but not-'

'raw.' art finishes for you, smirking. 'i know.'

you blush, own smile widening. 'stop that.' you devour the rest of the brownie in seconds like it'll disappear if you don't and art has to hide his laugh.

'you've got a little...' his voice is barely a whisper as he reaches out and brushes a crumb from your lip tenderly. in that moment, you could really see his eyes, the grey flecks amongst the green, how they softened when they looked at you.

'thank you' is your breathless reply, lips parting as his thumb pushes between them, tip of your tongue taking the crumb off the pad of his digit and swallowing it, not wanting to waste a morsel of this delicacy.

you're not sure how long the two of you stay like that, staring at each other like long lost lovers reuniting, but the screech of the jukebox sends reality careening back towards you both.

'jesus christ!' you jump, startled.

'blasted thing.' cursed art under his breath, 'whole place is haunted, i'm telling ya.'

'i wouldn't be surprised.' you shudder at the thought as he helps you off the counter.

'we should get out of here then. i'll drive you home.' he offers kindly and you nod, watching as he gives the jukebox a kick for good measure before leading you out and locking the diner door.

the next morning, you roll over in bed and check the work groupchat, 'hey! who closed last night? i don't remember seeing spaghetti and brownies on the menu!'

patrick's eyes flutter open, immediately noticing the hurt on your face. "hey, hey, what's wrong baby?" he comforts, moving his hand to wipe the tears streaming from your eyes. this only makes the tears worse, getting comfort from patrick knowing the only person deserving comfort right now was art. you bury your head into his chest, hand clinging to his shirt as you desperately try to pull yourself together. "i- feel so bad pat" you murmur into his chest with a messy voice. "i know you do- i told you it's gonna be ok" he assures, now rubbing your back soothingly to try and calm you down. patrick sits you up, holding you close as you unravel all your feelings, whispering "i know, i know".

"i promise you, it's gonna be ok again eventually. i know art, i... i trust that he'll forgive you, ok?" he says, tipping your chin up to look at him. patrick frowns, cupping your burning cheeks and kissing your forehead. "i-im sorry" you whisper. "no more apologizing, it's ok" he chuckles. "i'm-" you stop yourself realizing you were about to apologize again, you and patrick both look at eachother and you finally let out a laugh. it's short, but it helped to put and end to the crying. "he um- he actually messaged me last night." you reveal, reaching for your phone.

art:

i'm sorry for kicking you out so harsh, i hope you made it home ok.

to be honest im still really pissed and upset but i don't want to end things like this.

message me when you wake up so we can talk ok?

2:23AM

you show patrick the message, he smiles. "see, it's gonna be ok. c'mere," he pulls you onto his lap holding you in a tight hug, kissing your shoulder repeatedly. "i love you" you whisper. "i love you too. i'm really glad you're here" he replies, sighing deep. sinking into his embrace, you wondered if the anticipated conversation with art would bring any sort of relief. regardless of if he forgave you, would the consuming guilt still linger?

"text him back, you'll feel better after" he suggests, releasing you from his hold and sitting up to stretch. so you do. you grab your phone opening his contact.

you:

you shouldn't be the one apologizing.

i'm really sorry art.

9:02 AM

you let out a shaken exhale, shutting your phone off to look at patrick. "hungry?" he inquires to which you just smile "come on, let's grab something to eat" he adds. patrick lets you get ready and you both get in his car.

one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding yours. in attempt to cheer you up he puts on the radio and starts to awfully sing along to it, poking your thigh and kissing your hand. you laugh, cringing at him but of course joining in.

art:

i don't know if i have time this week to meetup and talk.

i'll message you next week.

9:21 AM

your phone buzzes, and you quickly check. you start to anxiously bite your lip as you read it, patrick notices and stops his exaggerated singing turning into a low hum. "everything ok?" he squeezed your hand, focusing back on the road. "yeah.. um, he just said he's busy this week so we'll talk next week" you say low. patrick hums, "hm, yeah his family always keeps him busy during the holidays" patrick reassures, but still, you wonder if art is just putting it off on purpose. he had every right to. patrick looks over and notices your lost expression, bringing your hand to his mouth and planting a kiss "hey, don't stress it". in response you just mumble "i know" and give a short nod. it was easier said than done.

soon came christmas. being around your family made it more difficult to be 'ok', especially when they kept asking about art. you weren't going to tell them about what happened because you knew it would only make it feel worse. your parents weren't comforting and you knew they wouldn't understand. christmas day was typical, your gifts that were mostly tennis related—new bag, stanford tennis merch and a new racket—your parents of course noting they thought it'd be a nice gesture to better your tennis at stanford.

you and patrick were both wrapped up with family on christmas day, texting eachother under the dinner table to avoid awkward conversations with distant relatives.

patrick:

i wish you were here.

i miss you.

5:20 PM

you:

i saw you yesterday silly

but same, the holidays always feel like such a chore.

5:20 PM

patrick:

what time does your family thing end at?

5:21PM

you:

i'm not sure, usually people start to leave around 7 or 8

5:21 PM

patrick:

can i steal you at 9?

5:23PM

you:

please. lol.

5:23PM

patrick:

perfect. hang in there ❤️

5:23 PM

you:

you too ❤️

5:24PM

it wasn't all bad. while your family in general had its rich offsprings, some of them were genuine and sweet. like your aunt who married into the family, she was always best at hijacking uncomfortable conversations and making it easier for you. holidays with family consisted of the 'common 3' as you liked to call it, being asked about school, tennis or your love life, and your parents always loved to chime in and answer for you.

a few more dreadful hours spent with family the house was finally quiet again and you were skipping out the door to see patrick. you eagerly hop into his car, giving him a few excited pecks before he started to drive. "so what's the plan" you smile, "you'll see, how'd the rest of your night go?" he replies. you fill him in on it all, the amusing bragging wars between relatives, the food, the gifts. eventually you reach your destination, the parking lot beside the outdoor tennis courts. the same tennis courts you'd always sneak off to, the same place you and patrick first met.

"interesting choice?" you giggle. "don't worry we're not here to play tennis, just felt like the right place to give you your gift." he smiles big, stretching his arm behind your seat to grab a small gift bag. "patrick, you-" you start to protest but he interrupts, "oh shush just open it" he laughs, handing you the bag. you look inside seeing a small rough looking notebook. you raise your eyebrows as you pull it out, inspecting it before opening it. the first page is blank, just 'p. zweig' written messily. you skim through the pages, seeing journal entries dated back to may of last year. around the time you had started ignoring patrick. your smile falls as you focus further on the words filling the pages. "when we weren't talking anymore i started writing in here, like- just things i wanted to tell you, i don't know." he stutters, seemingly nervous as he watches you read. as you continue to flip through, you focus solely on the dates, reading a few sentences before continuing to look at the next page. the dates stretched up until last week, the night you two were at the park. reading the first few sentences scribbled on the page.

'seeing you again tonight made coming back home worth it. i wasn't even sure if you'd answer my text, but im glad you did. i wanted to kiss you so bad, tell you how much i missed you and love you, but being that close to you again was enough for me'

you start to tear up, looking back up at patrick with a smile. "patrick, this is so sweet" you choke on a laugh, leaning in to hug him. "yeah? you like it?" he says nervous, holding you close. "yes i love it" you mumble. "i just thought it can be something for you to, y'know, have and read when you go back to stanford after the break".

your breath hitches. that's right. you won't be seeing patrick much at all when the break ends. you had been so caught up in your own pity party with art and spending time with patrick you didn't even think about the distance that was to come. with this realization you clutch onto him tighter, feeling more overwhelmed with emotion.

"shit i-" your voice breaks "i forgot, we.. won't be seeing eachother that much" you tremble. patrick breaks the hug to cup your cheek "hey, it's ok, we'll figure something out. don't worry about that right now, ok?" he assured. "yeah, ok" you sniffle "thank you, i love you" you smile with teary eyes, holding up the notebook. he places both his hands on your face smiling as he wipes away your tears "i love you too".

"oh shit, i didn't get you anything" your eyes widen. "i don't care, you being here is enough of a gift for me" he laughs. "you're sweet," you give a pouty smile "but no, i'm definitely getting you something" you laugh. "if you insist," he grabs the notebook from your hand "but this is pretty hard to top" he jokes, you playfully roll your eyes in response, leaning in to kiss him. "ok but really, i don't want you to stress about the distance thing ok? i'll visit as much as i can, we'll text, we'll call. we'll make it work" he rambles. "ok" you smile, pulling him into a hug again. something that was again, easier said than done. but still, you and patrick had made it this far. this long without seeing each other, still being able to hold on.

the remainder of the break was flying by. utilizing any free time to see patrick, anxiously waiting for the 'talk' with art although he had kept pushing it off. patrick endlessly reassured you that it would be ok, that art would forgive you and he probably was busy. it was hard to believe that though, and you didn't blame him for avoiding you since you had spent so long giving him similar treatment. it hurt but you deserved it. you couldn't help but miss art, in some aspects atleast. you weren't lying when you said he was your best friend, despite not sharing all of your personal problems with him, he was always there for you, you enjoyed his company.

still not hearing much from art, getting short cancellation messages until he finally sent 'let's just talk after the break'. you had spent a lot of time up at night thinking about the conversation, worrying about the end result of it, wondering what you really wanted it to end with. you wanted him in your life still, but how could that work after all that's happened?

patrick took you to a new year’s party his friends from highschool were throwing in the area, hoping to keep you distracted and cheer you up. something you typically would’ve been anxious about attending but you were too stuck on your worry for art. this is the first time patrick would be publicly acknowledging you as his girlfriend, and that hadn’t even clicked to you until you got to the party. everyone was visiting home for the holidays including some friends you had lost touch with.

patrick noticed your strange behaviour early on in the night, keeping a close eye. those ‘old friends’ of yours had eventually stole you away to question your appearance with patrick. you didn’t bother explaining the whole story, giving a half ass “oh i don’t know it just sorta happened”. giving the whole run down would’ve just made you feel worse because then you’d have to explain last year and then explain art and then explain cheating and you were trying to forget about all that stuff tonight. anytime someone would ask “wait i thought you were dating art?” you’d flinch, stumbling on your words until they assumed you were too drunk to form a proper sentence and would leave it alone.

what was supposed to be a distraction quickly spiraled into the constant reminder that you cheated on art with his best friend. you felt sick, and not even from the alcohol that you had been desperately downing for majority of the night—atleast you thought. you let patrick walk all over you last year and then you cheated on art and broke his fucking heart. but patrick apologized, you guys are fine. everything is fine, you guys are together and you understand everything now and you’re happy. but it isn’t ok. you cheated and lied for months, and art keeps cancelling because he is so fucking hurt that he doesn’t want to see you.

the room is spinning, or maybe you are, you don’t know. your mind is racing, about to cry or scream or throw up or all of the above. soon everyone’s shouting, no, counting. counting down from 5. 4. 3. 2. suddenly patrick is right there, you can’t think. he’s smiling, looking down at you, wrapping his arms around you and leaning down to kiss you. 1. you push him away and stumble off as everyone shouts “happy new year!”. you almost fall into the bathroom, crawling towards the toilet to relieve yourself. patrick enters shortly after, quickly closing the door and tending to you “baby, shit- are you ok?!” he holds your hair back as your leaned over the toilet.

you finish, lazily leaning against the wall as you’re sat on the cold tile floor. “how much did you drink?” he asks, sitting beside you and intertwining his hand with yours “i’m fine” you snap, dropping his hand. “hey- what’s wrong?” he asks, looking at you more concerned than before. you start to get up and he attempts to help you. “i said i’m fine patrick” you slur, tone as firm as it can be coming from a drunk girl. “you obviously are not, talk to me, please.” he says worried. “everyone fucking knows patrick! everyone knows!” you shout, sobbing “knows what? tell me please what’s wrong” his words overlapping with yours. “why’d you even bring me here patrick, why?” you ask, exaggerated and hurt. “baby, can you tell me what’s wrong i don’t- i don’t understand” his voice is shaking, eyebrows furrowed as he looks at you. your hands grip onto the counter behind you for stability, “you brought me here to what, cheer me up?” you poke his chest “how can i pretend everything is fine when everyone’s looking at me weird, fucki- fucking asking me ‘where’s art where’s art’ ‘you’re with patrick, oh i thought you were dating art’” you stammer. “like no, im dating patrick, i cheated on art with him actually” you say sarcastically and messy, still pointing and lazily poking him.

patrick’s lips are pursed, his eyes are glossy. he knows you’re in pain, he knows you aren’t meaning to hurt him, but your words sting. he clears his throat “ok enough, you’re just drunk i’ll take you home” his voice cracks. “no, i’m not done.” you protest “patrick i- how is this- how can we make it work if we never see eachother?” you huff, mascara running from your eyes and staining your cheeks. “baby i- i told you don’t worry about that we will figure it out, ok?” he tries to comfort, lifting his hand to cup your face but you push it away. “what if we can’t” you sob. patrick starts to cry. “you can’t just tell me everything is gonna be ok because you don’t know that. you don’t know. art fucking hates me and you tell me, it’s ok, it’s fine, but what if it isn’t.” you continue to snap. “why can’t you trust that we will be ok, if we both-“ he starts but you interrupt “because, patrick. you’ve given me false hope before” you slur, lip trembling.

the wave of nausea returns and you quickly dart to lean over the toilet again. patrick sinks beside you, pulling your hair back and leaning lazily against the wall. he’s getting too caught up in his feelings, he knows you’re just drunk but he can’t help but feel like he’s failing you all over again. “i’m taking you home after, ok?” he mumbles, tilting his head to observe you. “o-ok” you stutter.

patrick cleans you up, pulls himself together and leaves the bathroom with you in his arms. he walks to his car, gently placing you in the passenger seat and praying you’ll make it the drive home without throwing up again. your head is leaned against the window, eyes shut. the original plan was to stay at his house that night but he was too hurt, so instead he dropped you off at yours.

luckily your parents were at a new years party of their own and patrick was familiar with the layout of the house. as patrick lifts you out of the car you start to regain consciousness. he carries you in the house and up to your room. patrick puts you in a change of clothes, lays you on your side and drags your garbage can closer to you. “patrick?” you mutter. “yeah?” he replies. “are you, leaving?” you ask quietly. “d-do you want me to?” he asks hesitantly. “please stay” you pout. patrick sighs in relief, he didn’t want to leave you alone anyways, in the off chance you’d roll over and choke on your vomit during the night. “i’ll stay. i’m gonna go to the bathroom and then i’ll go and grab you some water, ok?”. you nod, watching him leave the room.

you remembered art, that sleep on the drive home was the only break you had gotten from worrying about him. you were so anxious you just decided to pick up the phone and call him. it was stupid late by now, drinks still lingering in your system from the new year’s party, part of you hoped he wouldn’t answer out of sheer nervousness, but on the other hand, you missed your friend. you wanted to hear his voice, wanting so badly for everything to be ok again, for him to be ok. the phone rang 4 times, as it was about to go to voicemail he picked up. “hello?” his voice is scratchy, you realize then, you definitely had woken him up. “h-hey” you stutter, heart pounding. “oh. hi, uhh- it’s kinda late, why are you calling?” he asks confused. “i- just wanted to hear your voice. see how you’re doing.” you reply hesitantly, speech still slightly slurring. “at almost 2 in the morning?” he sounds agitated, “um- yes, sorry. happy new years” you reply casually, a lighthearted giggle slipping out. “i um, ive gotta go. need to be up early sorry, bye” he rushes “oh ok b-“ you start but the call ends before you can finish.

patrick returns a few minutes later with water in hand. he sees you laying on your back staring up at the ceiling. he sets the water on the night stand and climbs in beside you, “lay on your side” he mumbles, wrapping an arm around you. “i’m sorry for what i said earlier” you say quietly. “it’s ok, just rest” he replies, soothingly rubbing your arm. “i was just overwhelmed, i-“ you huff “all anyone wanted to ask me about was you or art and i just wanted to forget-“ he cuts you off “shh, i know baby, im sorry” he kisses your shoulder “get some sleep ok” he whispers. “patrick he-, he hung up on me” you whisper, voice pitched up trying not to cry. patrick continues to kiss your shoulder, pulling you closer to him repeating “it’s ok” quietly. his fingers trace along your skin until you eventually drift off to sleep.

it’s early the next morning when you wake up, patrick’s arm still snug around you. you stumble to sit up, tightly clutching your head in attempt to soothe your pounding headache that was accompanied by a light ringing in your ears. you’re about to search for some kind of pain relief but patrick had beat you too it the night before, a bottle of advil and a glass of water on your nightstand. you chug it back, swallowing the pill and sinking back into the bed groaning.

without noticing, patrick had woken up, swiftly tightening his arms around you and playfully swinging you to the other side of the bed. you gasp, caught off guard but soon start to giggle as he squeezes you and groans. “feeling better today?” he says low, his morning voice rough. “god no, this headache is killing me, keep me away from the booze” you joke. he releases you from his grip and you roll over to face him. with a big smile you lean in to kiss him but he stops you “uh no thanks puke mouth” he laughs to which you scoff. he covers his mouth jokingly and groans “gross” he jokes. “fine” you say sarcastically, springing up to run to the bathroom.

he follows, settling behind you as you stand in front of the mirror. “jesus, were you gonna tell me how much of a mess i looked?” you say, leaning closer to the mirror to inspect the muck that was your smeared mascara and makeup. patrick leans in with you, hands wrapped around your waist. he pushes his crotch against you and playfully squeezes your tits “mess? you look beautiful.” he groans into your neck, planting a few pecks along your skin. your mouth parts, half laughing, half moaning at his antics. you turn around to face him. his finger settles on your mouth “nope. brush first” he smiles. you roll your eyes and reach for your toothbrush and toothpaste.

patrick continues to tease you, watching you close in the reflection of the mirror, his hands wandering over your body and under your shirt. he switches between teasing and tickling you, just basically torturing you as you try to quickly brush your teeth. each time you leaned over the sink to spit he’d press his clothed erection against you aggressively.

finally you finish, hands fumbling to set your toothbrush on its charger and turning around to smash your lips against his. his hand snakes under your shorts to squeeze your bare ass. you bite his lip and he breathes heavy, pressing his body closer to you. your arms are snug around his neck soft whines slipping from your mouth into his. his other hand moves to lightly brush his fingers on your lower stomach, making you pull back and laugh instinctively.

suddenly the door is pushed open and you both gasp, stopping to turn. you’re both met with your mother standing in the doorway. your smile drops quick. “thought i heard noises up here.” she sighs in relief with her hand on her chest. she’s smiling big, almost sinister. “hmm, this doesn’t look like art” she says with a smug tone looking at you with a raised brow. “get out.” you mumble frustrated. she just looks patrick up and down and lets out a short laugh before turning to leave. quite the mood killer.

you give patrick a quick glance and turn back to the mirror, switching on the sink and reaching for your makeup remover. patrick wraps you into a hug, burying his head in your shoulders “awkward” he says muffled, earning a quick laugh from you. he kisses your shoulder and releases his grip to lean beside you on the counter. “hey uh- you remember much from last night?” he asks, slightly nervous. “um sort of, i remember feeling overwhelmed and puking in the bathroom and- wait why? did i puke in your car?!” you quickly glance at him panicked. “god no, made sure you had it all out of your system before stepping foot in my car” he laughs. you splash water on your face, tugging the hung up hand towel to dry yourself “good, wouldn’t want to puke in your beloved honda” you chuckle, turning to give him a quick kiss. “why do you ask” you add, facing back to the mirror and starting to do your skincare routine. “well uh, we argued. do you remember that?” he asks quiet.

you stop, looking over at him. “no, shit- what was it about?” you ask panicked. he sighs in relief, hoping that you not remembering means you didn’t actually mean any of it. “first you were upset about everyone asking about us and um- and art, and then you were doubting us- like- this,” he motions between you two “and you kinda said you didn’t trust me because i’ve given you false hope before”. his words seem accusatory but his tone is calm and careful. “i just- i didn’t know if you had been feeling like that or something so i wanted to talk about it.” he adds. you let out a shaken exhale, “well, i’d be lying if i said i wasn’t nervous about doing long distance.” you start “i mean- im really nervous about it. about not seeing you as much” you finish, fiddling with your shirt.

patrick’s just looking down, nodding. you tip his chin up, “hey, that doesn’t mean i don’t want to try. i love you, i want this to work” you cup his face. “ok” he says quiet “i love you too”. you tilt your head to meet his gaze “hey” you mumble “are you upset with me?” you question. “no, no. i believe you i just- i really don’t want to fuck this up again.” he sighs, leaning into your hand. “you won’t” you assure, he kisses your palm. “from what you said it sounds like i was the one arguing last night. i’m sorry” you laugh lightly. “yeahh, get pretty mean when your drunk don’t you” he jokes. “okk enoughhh” you laugh. “hey um- why did we come back here last night instead of yours?” you inquire. “i dunno, i was feeling pretty hurt about everything afterwards and-“ you cut him off “ohhh i see, you were gonna ditch me” you smile. “you said it not me” he shrugs.

sure you two are just joking around but the thought that you could’ve woken up hungover and alone this morning made your stomach turn. “were you really though?” your voice turns more casual, your hand dropping to your side. “initially, yeah. your words really hurt but you were so drunk i didn’t want to leave you by yourself.” he admits, reaching over to hold your hand. “fair enough” you say quiet. “are you upset with me now?” he questions, looking a little alarmed. “no, it’s ok, honestly i get it” you sigh. patrick pulls you into his arms holding you close. “sorry, didn’t mean for this to turn into me hurting your feelings, i just wanted to check in” he consoles, tracing his fingers up and down your back. “i’m ok, don’t worry” you pull back, smiling.

but you were starting to feel a little more worried. you two had been officially together for a little over a week and were already starting to have issues. even if it seemed minor and manageable, how would things be going forward, barely seeing each other. while you could recall having doubts about the long distance thing, you could barely remember the argument the night before.

you just kept trying to rationalize. you had fought so long to push aside your feelings for patrick beforehand, surely now that you two talked about everything and were together it would be fine. the rest of the week you spent as much time as you could with patrick, anxiously awaiting the last day you’d have with him until god knows how long.

patrick offered to drive you back on the last day, it worked out perfectly since he had a tournament the following day a few hours away from stanford, and it meant a little more time with him instead of enduring a torturous drive with your parents. you ended up giving him a stanford keychain for a christmas gift, as a 'good luck' charm for when he's on the road. it was small but patrick was more than appreciative about it and to him it meant he'd have a small piece of you with him no matter how far away he was.

despite the drive being incredibly long, it didn't feel long enough, the nerves intensified as you two made it closer and closer to california. you told yourself you wouldn't cry which in hindsight was stupid, considering how much time you had spent crying before even packing your bags. patrick helped carry all your bags into the dorm, helping you unpack and staying with you for a few hours before he had to leave. you were tangled in a hug, holding tightly as he stood at your door. "i might be able to stay for a day or two next weekend, but after that it might be awhile" he says low. "ok ok" you mumble. "i'll text you when i get to my hotel, no, i'll call you" he corrects, breaking the hug looking down at you with a weak smile. "sounds good, i'm gonna try and arrange a lunch with art to finally talk, hopefully he's ready" you say shaken. "i'm sure he is and i'm sure everything will be ok, you can call me while i'm driving if you need to though, ok?" he comforts. "ok, please drive safe" your voice is already cracking as you reach up to tangle him in a kiss. it's bittersweet, not wanting it to end but knowing he has to get going. the kiss turns into a hug, "i love you" he whispers, "i love you too" you tremble. "ok no more crying, you won't have any tears left," he jokes, reaching in his pocket to grab his keys "call me if you need me" he adds. you exchange goodbyes, and another long hug before you finally let him leave. as he walks out the door he kisses his good luck charm he had attached to his lanyard immediately after you gave it to him.

you spent some time being upset and pulled yourself together. you started to try and get organized again, familiarizing yourself with your new schedule, cleaning up the mess that had accumulated from unpacking. while cleaning you started to notice bits and pieces of art scattered around the dorm. a stray sock, a few shirts, a pair of boxers. it was time to put your foot down, obviously art didn't owe you anything but regardless the conversation needed to happen. it had been 2 weeks.

you:

hey, not sure if your back yet but can we talk please

if you're not busy

i have some of your stuff here

6:02 PM

art:

yeah i have some of you're stuff here too, im available now but i have plans at 7

i can come by your dorm shortly

6:05 PM

you:

ok sounds good

6:06 PM

knock knock

it was almost 6:30 when art arrived. you had spent the time pacing around, gathering his things, riddled with anxiety.

you opened the door revealing art clutching a small bag with what was probably your stuff. "hey." you give a nervous smile, opening the door to let him in. "hey" he replies, walking in and setting the bag down on the table "so, i've spent a lot of time cooling off, just- processing i guess, and i'm sorry for kicking you out like that i just- was really fucking hurt and confused" he sighs, leaning against the wall. "art, you shouldn't apologize, i understand, what i did was fucked up" your voice is shaken. "yeah it was fucked up but it was shitty for me to leave you with no way home, i mean, how did you get home?" he asks. "well," you pause, worried about how it'd make him feel knowing it was- "patrick?" he finished for you. you nod, fiddling with your hands. "that's fine, glad you made it home safe at least." he sighs again, nervously rubbing his neck "i'm just- can you explain this to me? like how and why this all happened?"

you let out a shaken exhale "we- we were seeing eachother for awhile last year, never put a label on it or told anybody. patrick he- we just..." you hesitate "we would talk about things we didn't feel comfortable saying out loud i guess and it felt really special." you're stumbling on your words, in between sentences looking up at art to observe his expression which seemed weirdly composed. "i wanted it to be public but he was hesitant about it for some reason and i-... it just got to the point where i wasn't ok with that and ended things before graduation." you finish, sighing. arts looking to you like he's waiting for more "ok." he replies, a short silence following. "well um, the start of the semester me and you started hanging out and by then i thought i was over patrick and spending time with you was- well i felt happy again, ready to move on" you continue, eyes still flicking between the floor and him. he crosses his arms "right ok. just skip to the part where you cheat on me" he says, still maintaining a calm voice which makes it feel more unsettling. "art." you frown, "no- it's fine! because i- i cheated on you too." he shoots back. your heart sinks, breath catching in your throat "w-what?" you say quiet. "yeah, i fucked tashi." he replies, looking straight at you with a blank face. your gaze falters, feeling a lump in your throat form as you speak "i- i don't know what to say" you choke. "then don't. you cheated on me, i cheated on you. we're even." art says, fixing his posture to stand straight.

its quiet for a moment as you process his words, in the corner of your eye you see his figure moving, he's walking toward the door. "art. sit down." you say firm, voice cracking as your tear filled eyes are wide. to be pissed at him would be hypocritical, but it still stings, and for the past 2 weeks you have had many sleepless nights anticipating this conversation with him, you were not gonna let it end like this. "i don't care how messy this gets, i fucking care about you, i hate that i hurt you, we are having this conversation" you cry, more so frustrated than upset. the situation in its entirety had been draining for all parties involved.

you grab his arm and pull him further into your dorm, pulling out the chair from your desk. he's quiet, but he nods and sits down. you back up and lean against your bed across from him. "yes art, i cheated on you. i kissed patrick at that party and i knew it was wrong so i told him to fuck off. i wish it didn't happen so i tried to pretend like it didn't, and then he came to my dorm the night after and we had sex. i told you that during holiday break." you say harsh. you feel angry, unjustifiably, but after months of swallowing your feelings and holding them back, you needed this. art just sits and listens, looking at the floor. "art. i care about you, hell, i love you even. what i did was fucking awful but back when this happened, i- i thought i was saving our relationship by trying to forget about patrick all together, but, ignoring what i felt for him only made it worse, and i am so fucking sorry that i put you in the middle of it art." you ramble, finally starting to crack as your voice continues to shake and your emotions spill from you.

he looks hurt, his face is red. you were probably too harsh looking back but hearing that he had cheated on you too just flipped the switch, and you were already emotional since 2 hours ago you and patrick officially started long distance. tears are streaming down your face as you choke back your emotions. he looks up at you, eyes fluttering "i uh," his voice cracks and he clears his throat "i- just- why?" he stutters. you feel helpless, you want to give art the closure he needs and honestly the closure you need too "art- i just told you" you cry. "no- why him, w-why patrick? i mean, he's a fucking dick" art stammers, looking at you concerned. "because i- i love him ok w-" he cuts you off "no, this- he clearly treated you like shit, treated tashi like shit, he’s awful to women yet still gets whoever he wants it- its fucked up" he raises his voice, sitting up in his chair. "art no, you don't understand, what me and patrick have is-" he again cuts you off "it's what? it's what?!" he pressed. "it's different, it's deeper than any relationship either of us have had. h- he knows me" you huff, sniffling between words. "what and- and i don't?" he stands up, voice full of hurt. "not fully.. but t-that's my fault, not yours" your heart is pounding, breathing heavy. "i- i don't understand. what don't i know about you" he says with a pleading tone and walks closer. you squeeze your eyes shut, trying so hard to stifle your sobs. after a long silence broken up with mutual sniffles, you sit on your bed and sigh "i- hate tennis" you manically laugh, recognizing how stupid it sounds to start it off like that. "my home life is shit, my parents care more about my tennis than me. it’s the only reason i play anymore at this point” you admit, your voice congested.

you force a weak smile to choke back the hurt that overwhelmed you. "patrick is the only person who i've felt comfortable telling about this. he- he's the only one who understands" you add. art is stood in front of you, face burning red with tears stained on his cheeks. he says your name low, "i-im sorry". you laugh "it's not your fault, none of what has happened is. i mean, really i don't even blame you for cheating on me" you reply looking up at him. "i just- felt trapped. patrick sees me like nobody else can and with parents like mine- it's nice to feel seen, understood. but it isn't an excuse though, im sorry." you say weak, wiping your face and inhaling deep. "earlier when you- you said you loved me?" he questions. "i meant it art, i do love you, i mean why do you think i called you at 2am on new years” you laugh lighthearted “i just- don't think it's in a romantic way. you are important to me though, and im sorry i put you through this" you assure. he nods and sits on the bed next to you. "why didn't you feel comfortable telling me about you parents? i mean- we were dating." he asks quiet and shaken. "don't take it personally, it's not something i've felt comfortable telling anybody really. after awhile it just became something i learned to silently deal with" you admit, sniffling still. art hums and nods in response.

it's quiet for awhile, your gaze stuck on the floor until you decide to break the silence "so, when did you and tashi sleep together?" you turn to look at him. you can see the remorse in his eyes "a few weeks before the break." he admits, quickly looking down at his lap and picking at his skin. "she had been torn up about patrick still and- you were distant and, it just kinda happened." he adds, hesitantly looking back at you. "i feel like i should admit that i- uh- guess i never really got over what happened at the open". you nod "i had a feeling." you reply, arts eyes widen a bit. "just from the way you talked about it, and how pissed off you were when you told me about them breaking up." you add clearing your throat. your eyes wander around the room "i think i was just too fixated on patrick and the guilt i felt, to let that bother me". "oh. ok" he replies nodding. you can tell that despite everything that happened, art feels horrible for doing it, for cheating on you. "i don't blame you, i don't. and i can't apologize enough for all this." the waterworks come again, your eyes flutter and your voice breaks "but again, i care about you. i hope we can eventually be friends, i want you in my life still.". arts lip trembles, biting it to stable himself "i- i don't know, i need some time ok? i'm sorry" he shakes. "no i understand" your tears intensify, breath catching in your throat.

his phone buzzes, and he snaps out of it, "ah- shit" he reaches in his pocket to grab his phone, checking the time and reading the message. "shit i- i'm sorry but i've gotta go." he huffs, "i'm um, meeting tashi" he wipes his face with both hands and gets up. "o-ok, no that's fine." you reply, getting up after him to give him the bag full of his things. "thank you, for talking to me" you smile through the tears, he’s stood in the door way. he nods with a weak smile "bye" his voice breaks, walking out the door and closing it gently behind him.

you dial patrick's number, sobbing into the phone before he even picks up.

after a few rings he answers "hey you, i'm almost at the hotel, what's up?" he shouts over his music. you try to speak but you don't even know where to start, mustering up quiet sobs and whines "i-". he turns the radio down, "what's wrong babe?" he says concerned. "art and i- just talked" you heave. "shit did it not go well?" he asks. "no it- i- i don't know" you stutter "patrick he- cheated on me too". "wait what?!" he shouts. "i'm not mad at him but- still, i’m kinda hurt" your cries make you sound almost incoherent, "hey, just take your time ok, let yourself calm down" he comforts.

so you do, closing your eyes to steady your breathing, swallowing the emotions until you feel calm enough to form a sentence without breaking. patrick patiently waits. once you've collected yourself you start explaining it all, not in great order and still with a slightly shaken voice. "with tashi? jesus. are you ok?" he asks. "i don't know. im not pissed at him for that, but things got heated fast and it was very emotional." you reply. your voice is raspy and burnt out. "from what you told me i think things will be ok though, no? i'm sure he's hurt but, sounds like he's coming around." you can hear his car coming to a stop. "maybe, i hope so." you say weak "are you at the hotel now?". "yeah just pulled in." he replies. "oh ok. want me to let you go?" you ask quietly. "no, talk to me. i don't mind" he says quick, you smile big.

you and patrick keep chatting for awhile, eventually you insisted on letting him hang up to get sorted in to his hotel room, only for him to call you back 10 minutes later saying "i have all night, talk to me". after talking on the phone for another hour you were feeling a lot better about everything, that lingering feeling of unease finally subsiding. it was getting late, you were feeling tired, and you could tell patrick was aswell—he had to have been from driving all day long—so you let the call come to an end. "i already miss you." he says low "me too" you reply yawning. "patrick?" you ask, "what's up?" he chuckles. "i- im scared" you say nervously. "about what?" he responds, tone more alert. "this. the long distance stuff. like, really fucking scared" you answer. "that's ok. i’m nervous too. can we talk about it?” his voice is calm. “ok, yeah. uhm-“ you shudder “what exactly do we talk about” you laugh a little. “what are you afraid of?” he asks.

a simple question, one you felt like you couldn’t answer on the spot. you spent hours, days even, overthinking this yet you struggle to answer. what were you afraid of? “i- what if it doesn’t work” you hesitate. “how would it not work” he asks. it’s like he knows you weren’t being rational about the whole thing, then again you had repeated ‘what if it doesn’t work’ to him like 3 times already. “like- what if we fight or something” you answer. “then we’ll talk through it, like we usually do.” he responds, maintaining a steady voice “i mean this probably won’t be easy right? we can figure it out as we go” he consoles. “you’re right, i’m sorry” you sniffle. “you’ve apologized a lot recently haven’t you” he chuckles. “yeahh.” you laugh. “patrick? you’re nervous too? about this?” you question. “yes” he responds. “what are you nervous about?” you anxiously add. “remember when i told you about the argument from new years? how you said ive given you false hope before?” he asks. “that. that’s what im nervous about. i really don’t want to hurt you anymore” he admits, tone shifting more quiet. “you won’t.” you say quick, starting to feel emotional again. “if you say so” his voice dances, trying to lighten the mood, which only helps a little. “i miss you.” you repeat. “i know, i do too.” he responds. "don't forget about the notebook. you have that, i have my little keychain thing, and we have this" he assures, you laugh with teary eyes "ok, perfect.". "get some sleep, ok? i'll call you in the morning" he chuckles. "ok, i love you" you say with a big smile and although he can't see it he can definitely hear it in your voice. "i love you too, goodnight" he replies.

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at his next practice, he started tossing his racket around in the air during a break. up and down, he threw the racket and caught it loosely and without fear. you’d scolded him about being careful, because “those things cost an arm and a leg” to which art replied that he’d “have plenty of money to spend on new rackets by the end of the season.” he was confident in his abilities and you loved it, prompting you to take another photo just in case he did end up breaking the racket so you could taunt him about how he should’ve listened to you. 

the third photo was taken during a particularly rough practice. art kept missing the ball, and he was growing more frustrated by the second. it didn’t help that patrick seemed to be performing perfectly. the tension on the court was palpable, and you could almost see the twitch in his eyebrow whenever he tried to take a deep breath. regardless, you thought he looked good. you could feel his passion for tennis through his frustration, so you couldn’t help but take a very secret photo. you never showed it him, and you never would. you comforted him after practice, running your fingers through his unruly hair as he ranted to you.

despite loving how art looks on the court, your absolute favourite photos of art were his off-court photos: those photos reminded you of what he was like before you started dating: when he was just the boy who sat next to you in class rather than a tennis prodigy. more specifically, you loved his side profile. his face was so perfectly proportionate to you, and you thought his smile was even better. art always described his face as a little mousey, which was true in a way, but you found it adorable. 

one night, art had taken you to a celebratory dinner the university was hosting after a particularly important tennis match. he was off at a table in some corner, making conversation with some tennis big-wigs, because “networking is half the sport, babe.” as art explained it. the outdoor lights were illuminating in a way that formed a calming yellow glow around his figure. it made him look angelic as he pretended to laugh at the out-of-touch jokes the industry execs were making. you couldn’t help but secretly snap a photo with a warm smile adorning your face.

the next photo was taken in art’s dorm room. you were celebrating the completion of your first series of midterms with a little bit of alcohol, snacks, and card games. a soft, tipsy flush graced his face, leaving a slight pink blush freckling his nose and cheeks. he had spent the past half-hour giggling at everything and nothing as the haze of cheap beer started to fog up his brain. he’d just told you the stupidest joke - something about a man walking into a bar with a tennis racket. you’d laughed because, of course, the joke was about tennis, and he hadn’t stopped laughing since. even when his giggles would cease for the tiniest little while, he was still smiling to himself, eyes crinkled, cheeks rosy, shaking his head slightly - you knew he was still thinking about his joke. art was ridiculous in this state, endlessly squirmy and a little bit dopey. you’d taken a photo to show him and laugh about when he had finally sobered up the next morning.

the third photo was taken in the dining hall. you’d both gone for breakfast early in the morning so you could enjoy the fresh food and the ambient silence as there weren’t many people up. you were in line waiting to get your omelets when you heard a loud gasp, capturing art’s attention. quick footsteps pattered up to your spot in line, before you heard a squeal. a very excited girl, around your age, had approached and explained that she was a fan of art. it was his first ever fan encounter off-court, so you pulled out your phone to memorialize the interaction. the girl handed you her phone to take a picture of her and art (with your omelets in the background). art was flustered (and a little bashful) about the whole interaction, but you were happy for him. it signified the start of art’s influence and success in the world of tennis.

patrick and art are a package deal and essentially inseparable. patrick is around so often that he’s practically your pseudo-bonus-boyfriend/built-in best friend, which means you’ve got an entire collection full of photos of the duo, titled third-wheeling. 

during one of their duo tennis practices, art and patrick were having an intense deliberation, presumably about their upcoming match; they were whispering sharply, frowning, and looking around for any listening ears. you snapped a photo because you liked the intensity of the moment: they looked like professionals. later on, you felt compelled to ask what they were talking about. to your surprise (even though you really shouldn’t have been surprised), they were discussing the cafeteria menu for dinner, and whether they should just find someplace else for all of you to eat instead - meatloaf just didn’t sound very appealing to the pair after 4 hours of tennis practice. 

after christmas break, art and patrick had both come back to campus with newly gifted digital cameras. they’d spent the entire morning taking pictures of just about anything: posters on the walls, a thin blanket of snow on a red car, even a piece of litter on the ground. they’d even made you pose a few times for them. you were sitting in the common room of your dorm floor around 11pm, all dressed in robes and slippers when the pair realized they hadn’t yet taken photos of each other. so they turned in their seats, with an almost scary degree of synchronization, and both took a photo at the exact same time. you’d taken a candid photo of their not-so-candid moment, and smiled to yourself. as annoying as patrick could be, you adored their friendship and how openly they displayed it.

the last photo was taken on the same night of the university’s celebratory dinner for their tennis players. art’s social battery was completely drained after being forced into conversation with tennis industry insiders, and patrick hadn’t tried at all. it was nearing the end of the night, and the three of you were huddled into a corner. patrick was complaining about how bored he was, while art tried to shush him before somebody important heard, all while still giggling at partick’s comments. it was a perfect encapsulation of their dynamic; both boys were cheeky and brash, but only art had the gall to try to hide it in certain settings, whereas patrick was more carefree. you took one last photo to close out the night, in the middle of patrick making another snide comment and art checking to make sure no one was around.

in the presence of art and patrick, you were exactly where you wanted to be.

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