dilf!art donaldson (challengers) with feminine reader. sfw. this is a sort of “lost in translation” au but it deviates from the movie. you’re implied to be younger. you’re both alone in your respective marriages and, while in japan, end up connecting with each other. + masterlist.
. . . never in your life did you imagine you’d be so far from home. the hotel’s nice, big in a way that awes and filled to the brim with people you don’t know (and some people you wish you didn’t know). your room feels like a cell at times, perhaps because of all the crap you’ve let your husband gather along the floor. at other times, it feels so spacious it hurts; your husband’s stuff is here but he isn’t.
. . . you should’ve studied more japanese before the trip. you’ve barely left your room so far, worried about the language barrier. you should be going out, exploring, really. it’s not everyday that an american gets to see japan, even if the most you’ve seen so far is the view from your room’s window. you fiddle with the sleeve of your sweater instead, still staring out the window, held back by something you couldn’t really explain.
. . . it isn’t until two days into your husband’s work trip that you find another foreigner to talk to. you’re down at the hotel’s bar, sitting with your husband and his friends when you spot him. he’s older, far older than you. blonde hair, a sharp nose but softened eyes, wise from growing older. he drinks alone, grimacing at every sip. the sight makes you smile— finally, you’ve met someone worse than you at drinking. you call over a server and send a softer drink his way. “for that guy over there,” you explain, “for him.”
“for mr. donaldson?” the young man asks, glancing at the blonde and then back to you.
you nod. “if that’s his name, sure. for mr. donaldson, please.”
the drink is delivered and mr. donaldson sips it before looking your way. embarrassment hits when you realize he’s caught you looking. still, you smile. and, for a moment, he smiles back. then your husband snaps his fingers near your face, and you have to turn away. you’re not sure if mr. donaldson kept smiling after that.
. . . being in japan has made you reflect a lot. mostly on yourself, then on your marriage. you decided today to visit a shrine. the breeze is slightly cold, nipping at your cheeks and nose as you walk the path of the shrine, passing underneath torii gates. your husband might love you, but he loves his job more. photography. surely, the kami care not for your insecurities. you blink twice, almost tempted to laugh at yourself.
at the main hall, the directions given to you are as follows: throw a coin into the offering box, ring the bell, bow twice, clap twice, offer your prayer, and then bow a final time.
you toss your coin into the offering box, then ring the bell. the sound echoes freely, filling your head as you bow twice. it’s interrupted by the sound of your own clapping and before you know it, you’re already at the prayer section. you manage the first thing that comes to mind: please, don’t let me be alone forever. finally, you bow a final time. when you come back up, you move some hair from your face, taking in a deep breath. the trip back to the hotel is the most lonely trip of your life.
. . . your husband hasn’t spent much time with you, lately. after a day full of boredom in your room, you decide to spend your night in the bar. you’re looking for alcohol and temporary company, but not an affair. that’s what you tell yourself, anyways. you spot him rather quickly, that old blonde, speaking to two younger men about tennis. you slide yourself over into the seat next to him. he finishes his sentence, then turns to you, a small smile on his face.
“missed me?” he asks playfully. you get the feeling that you’ve heard jokes from him a thousand times, that you’ve swallowed his laughter a million times, that you’ve laid your head in his lap and let him pet your head at least once.
you swallow some. you’ve done none of those things. “i have to know you to miss you,” you reply. you order a drink, but it’s nothing good; the taste has you sputtering, cheeks burning.
“here, here,” the blonde chuckles, taking the drink from you and sliding you his own, “this is probably better for you. it’s what athletes drink.”
“and you think i’m an athlete?” you question, wiping your mouth with a napkin.
“i think i’m a retired athlete and i’m offering you a drink.” mr. donaldson lifts the glass to your lips, “drink.”
and you do, nearly immediately. he’s right, his drink is better by a country mile. you shake your head, trying not to smile. “okay.”
“okay?”
“okay, it’s a good drink,” you admit, laughing a little, “do you mind if i finish it?”
mr. donaldson nods. “i do. but you can have another sip, just a sip.”
. . . nothing happens. you don’t learn mr. donaldson’s first name, you barely get drunk, and you certainly don’t sleep with him. you walk back to your room alone, having had some wonderful banter with an equally wonderful stranger. you lay down in bed, completely alone, and yet full off of satisfaction. full but light, as though you were floating. maybe you should’ve prayed for fulfillment, not companionship. being empty is so heavy, anyways…
. . . a trip to the pool never hurt anybody. the first thing you notice about the pool is neatness of the layout. the second thing you notice is the fact that mr. donaldson is in there, swimming laps. you take a step back, suddenly feeling overdressed in your one piece. for whatever reason, it feels prudish not to wear a bikini. before you can leave, though, the blonde comes up for air and spots you. he waves you over, beckoning you to join him in the water.
who are you to refuse mr. donaldson?
the water is set at a surprisingly comfortable temperature. you slowly dip yourself in, glancing over at him once you’re fully in the shallow end. he motions for you to join him in the deep end. you hesitate, but swim over.
“not used to the deep end?” he asks as soon as you’re face to face with him.
you shake your head as you tread the water. “not really.”
“i find it relaxing,” he murmurs. the blonde glances at you for a moment or so before taking hold of your hands, keeping you close. “just you and the water. nothing better than that.”
“mm. some things,” you correct him, “like… reading a nice book.”
he laughs a little. the answer seems so you, and this is, what? your second conversation? “right. and your husband, does he like reading, too?”
your husband. your lips flatten out, briefly, as you try to form the best response. a response to make him look good, your husband. but mr. donaldson squeezes your hand before you can really speak.
“i like to read,” he says, “you strike me as a jane austen type.”
he doesn’t mention your husband again after that.
. . . art sighs softly as he carries you upstairs. you shift slightly in his arms, tipsy but not fully drunk. he’s carrying you because he wants to, not because you insisted on it, and yet he sighs. maybe it’s guilt; he’s got a wife, a beautiful baby girl, all the money and fame in the world. maybe it’s the opposite, a sigh of relief; he’s finally got you, someone who understands, someone as lonely as him.
he sets you down gently onto his bed, tucking you underneath the thick blankets. “we are not going drinking again,” he declares to you as he adjusts the blankets.
you look up at him, eyes all bright with mischief. “don’t be that way.”
“one of us has to be,” he replies, leaning down and kissing your forehead. “you’re a good friend. but a terrible drinking buddy.” he pauses, lending another kiss to you. he presses his lips firmly along the edges of your hairline, halfway to your forehead and halfway to your scalp. “goodnight.”
you hum softly. “goodnight.”
. . . the question comes when he leasts expects it. it leaves your lips as you lean on his shoulder, sitting on a bench and staring out into the streets of japan. people walk by, each person so busy with their own life that they barely notice art’s face on a nearby billboard, advertising some sort of beer that he didn’t really care for.
“you’re married, aren’t you, art?” you ask, your voice soft. you learned his name a day or so ago, and have been infatuated with using it since.
he pauses momentarily, blue eyes flitting about before they focus back on the people crossing by all around you two. “i am.”
you take in his answer. neither surprised nor upset, you press on. “does…. does it get better, art? less lonely?”
“it can,” he replies, taking in a breath. “it definitely can.”
you fall quiet. you want to ask more, but you already know the answer to each of your questions. instead, you let out a sigh. mr. donaldson wraps an arm around your shoulder, pressing a kiss to your head.
. . . lover, father, friend, soulmate, fellow american, or maybe just a rare connection. it’s hard to describe what art donaldson is to you. his work trip won’t last forever, and you know soon you’ll have to decide how you want this to end. a hug and a kiss? a phone number and a promise of future contact? a one and done affair, never to be spoken of again?
the decision’s all yours.
hopefully through my writing i managed to match the way coppola wld switch from focusing on charlotte to bob to them both. i tried to leave this open ended-ish at the end just in case i decide to write some more (not sure what i’d write, though). anyways… like and follow for more <3
tagging! @artstennisracket, @nozhdyved, @bluberrychampagne, @idioticstar, @tiffysdeath, @savedenji, @allmyn1ghts ✩ click here to be added!
