tis the damn season ; art donaldson
cw; drinking, smut!!, art and reader are really kinda pathetic <3
if i wanted to know who you were hanging with
while i was gone i would have asked you
it's the kind of cold, fogs up windshield glass
but i felt it when i passed you
there’s an ache in you put there by the ache in me
but if it’s all the same to you, it’s the same to me
five years ago
“hey, stranger,” you can practically hear art’s smile through the phone, “how was your day?” you roll onto your back, phone clutched in your hand like a vice, “it was alright. just cramming for finals,” you sigh softly, “hows stanford?” “god, it’s incredible,” he laughs, “i wish you were here. you’d love it, baby. it’s like a movie,” you hum in response, ignoring the ache in your chest that had made its home there the day he flew out, “how’s training going? do you have any matches soon?” “oh, it’s great!” there’s that smile again, “i’ve got a match tomorrow, actually, so i should probably go soon. it’s at 7 am,”
“that’s good,” you smile to yourself, “do you feel good about it?” “yeah, i think so. coach says i’m gearing up to do really well this season,” he says proudly, and your chest aches again at the thought of missing it. “i’m sure you will,” you try to keep your voice even, “well i’ll let you get some sleep, i love you,” “love you more,” he murmurs, “goodnight, baby,”
art texts you the next morning to inform you he ‘killed’ his match, attaching a poorly taken photo of him grinning ear to ear, gold metal ribbon around his neck. it’s little crumbs like this that keep you sane, keep you feeling close to him, ever since he left. ‘knew you’d win! you’re so cute. call later?’ you reply, your cheeks pink as if you’re texting a crush rather than your boyfriend of two years. ‘course i will’ he replies, and you’re already counting down the minutes until the nighttime routine you’d grown accustomed to.
at nine oclock, you lay across your dorm bed, eyes practically glued to your phone screen as you wait on art’s nightly call. by nine thirty, you’re mildly annoyed, and by ten, you’re worried. you pick up the phone, pressing call on his contact, biting the inside of your cheek as you listen to the phone ring. he picks up after a moment, the music in the background nearly drowning out his voice, “hello?”
“hey,” you try your hardest not to let your irritation bleed into your tone, “did you forget to call?” “fuck, baby. i’m so sorry,” you hear shuffling, and the music gets slightly quieter, “patrick invited me to this party since we won this morning, it totally slipped my mind,” “it’s fine,” you tell him slightly too quickly, “just have fun, kay? i’ll talk to you tomorrow,” “wait- are you sure?” he sounds confused, and you wonder if its the alcohol or the change in your tone that’s thrown him off.
“yeah, of course,” you hope your voice sounds as light as you intend it to, “we can talk tomorrow night, it’s okay. have fun,” “okay, i guess,” he sounds so hesitant you start to think he might just leave the party, “well goodnight then. i love you,” “night. love you too,” you hang up before you can talk yourself into begging him to stay on the phone. the next night, he calls at six oclock sharp, and you can tell the entire phone call that he’s eager not to upset you.
he’d always been that way. he’d do something, just one tiny mistake, and spend days apologizing or being extra sweet to fix it. you’d lost count over the years of just how many grand gestures he’d made, of how many times he’d professed his love for you for no reason other than to get back in your good graces; not that he’d ever left.
you and art were cheesily in love, so high school in the way that you couldn’t keep your hands off of eachother, couldn’t go a day without speaking. you were practically sewn at the hip from sophomore to senior year, even applying to colleges together. when he got his offer from the stanford athletics department, you didn’t think much of it. he seemed flattered, of course, but you never thought he’d actually go.
he loved boston, he loved his family, he loved you, so it made no sense when he came over one afternoon, admission letter in hand, and a wide smile on his lips. “i accepted their offer!” he’d told you, ever so proud, “they gave me basically a full ride, as long as i stay on the team and keep my grades up. can you believe that?”
you could believe it, of course. everyone knew how wildly talented art was, from such a young age. he’d started playing tennis at his parents country club when he was just a kid, and eventually worked his way up to attending a tennis academy not far from your high school. he had promise, drive, ambition, and a naivety just subtle enough to make him an excellent candidate to be pushed too far by coaches.
you’d known, then, that things would change between you. everyone told you nothing would happen, you two were meant to be, but you could feel it. he’d be across the country, practicing incessantly, playing matches, attending parties thrown by teammates you’d never meet. and you’d be home, working for a degree that might help you make a name for yourself.
over the course of a few months after that party, the calls grew less and less frequent. by summer, you were lucky to hear from art more than once a week. you knew he was busy, of course, and tried to ignore the way bitterness coated your tongue with every word you said to him on your brief calls. you tried to ignore the way he talked about all the friends he’d made, friends that you didn’t know at all, and tried to ignore the way he barely sent you photos anymore.
the one thing getting you through was the promise of summer break with art. two short months together, to pretend everything was back to normal, that you weren’t living completely separate lives. you woke up at six am sharp the day of his flight home, eagerness keeping you from sleep, and picked up your phone to call and see when he’d be landing. he answered after four rings, his voice raspy from sleep, “hello?”
“good morning!” you replied cheerily, “when’s your flight?” “oh, hey baby,” you heard some shuffling before he returned to the phone, “uhm, i actually was just gonna call you about that,” “is everything okay?” your cheery tone slipped, dread festering in your stomach before you could even place why. “yeah, of course. i just meant to tell you, coach wants me to do some training over the summer. he thought it would be best if i stayed here, just for this first year, for some extra drills and stuff,”
you sat silently, tears pricking your eyes, as you listened to his excuse. “so what, then? you’ll be home for a month shorter, or?” “i won’t be able to make it home at all this year, honey. i’m so sorry, but you can come stay with me, yeah? i’ll buy your ticket, it’ll be just like we planned,” your heart broke even further at how optimistic he sounded, as if he hadn’t just shattered your expectations of the summer, of your reunion. “i have work, art,” you said quietly, “you know that. i have to make up for being off through the school year,”
“you don’t need that job, baby. come on, come see me,” “no, art!” you argued, your brows pinched in frustration, “i do need this job, actually. some of us don’t have trust funds, believe it or not. jesus,” your words came out sharper than you intended, all the hurt and anger from the last several months finally revealing itself. “i’m sorry,” he said after a moment, “this is really important to me. this is my shot, yknow? i can’t mess this up,”
“yeah,” your voice was bitter, but you truly did understand, “i get it. stay there, it’s for the best,” “i’ll come home next summer, okay? it won’t be like this every year,” he sounded like he was pleading with you, and it took all your control not to snap at the irony of it. “art, i think it’s best we don’t keep trying to make this work. you need to focus on your tennis and school and i need to focus on mine, and let’s just call it even, okay? we had a really good run,”
“a good run?” he repeated incredulously, “are you trying to break up with me?” “i am, yeah,” you hoped you sounded confident in your answer, “i just don’t think it’s a good idea for us to draw this out any longer than we need to,” “what the fuck? where is this coming from? is this about the summer?” he sounded so genuinely confused, so lost, and it only angered you further. “it’s just not working, art. everyone warned us long distance wasn’t a good idea,”
“baby, please,” he was practically begging, a slight whine in his voice that you knew all too well. “no, i’m sorry, okay? but it’s done,” “you can’t just-” “bye, art,” you hung up before you could talk yourself out of it, letting yourself cry as hard as you’d wanted to for months now. you curled up in bed, sobs wracking your body, and mourned the relationship with a boy you’d once thought you’d marry.
you thought he’d text or call, tried to prepare yourself to reject him again, but the contact never came. he listened, for once. art donaldson had completely slipped out of your life, without a trace.
three years later, you graduated top of your class, landed your dream job in journalism, and moved to an apartment in the city. you tried your best not to keep up with art’s achievements, but it was difficult when he won nearly ever tournament he stepped foot into. he made all the sports headlines, and you turned your head at each of them, hoping to convince yourself you never even knew him.
i parked my car right between the methodist
and the school that used to be ours
the holidays linger like a bad perfume
you can run, but only so far
i escaped it too, remember how you watched me leave
but if that’s okay with you, it’s okay with me
current
you returned home for the holidays, driving down from the inner city to your parents home on the outskirts of boston. about three miles out, you’re lost in thought, music playing through your speakers and snow dusting your windshield. you’re jolted when you hit a deep pothole, cursing under your breath when your tire pressure light kicks on.
you pull over into the closest parking lot, grabbing your coat and stepping out of the car to survey the damage. “fuck me,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration when you see the tire’s gone flat. you’re in the middle of trying to pry your spare out of the trunk when headlights illuminate the area around you, and you hear a car crunching over the snow.
“you alright, miss?” a man calls, his voice sharp in your ears against the quiet of the evening. “just got a flat, i’m taking care of it,” you reply, not bothering to look back over your shoulder as you yank your spare free finally. “it isn’t safe to drive on a spare in this weather,” he tells you, and the slight crack of his tone raises the hair on your arms, the familiarity seeping through you deeper than the cold breeze.
you turn, finally facing the stranger, your breath in your throat. there he stands, his blonde hair peeking out underneath the hood of his puffer coat, his cheeks tinged pink from the wind. “art?” you exhale, your heart suddenly racing in your chest, “what are you doing here?”
“oh,” he looks as startled as you feel, his blue eyes widening ever so slightly, “i was just passing by on my way to my parent’s, i saw a car and thought you’d need help,” “i’ve got it,” you say too quickly, “i’ll call my dad to pick me up, don’t worry about it. thanks, though,”
“i can take you,” he offers, gesturing to his car parked just feet away, still running, “it’s on the way, anyway. i don’t mind,” “i think i’ll just call my dad,” you argue, “you can go, okay? i got this-” “please just let me take you home,” his tone sounds like you’d be doing him a favor, not the other way around, “come on, i’ll help you get your stuff, i’ll fix your tire tomorrow,”
you never could say no to his puppy dog eyes, even after all these years. so there you sit, shivering in art’s too nice car, trying not to look at him as he drives you home like he had so many times before. “it’s good to see you,” he says finally, breaking the silence, and you hum in response, unable to muster up any real conversation.
“i moved back,” he says after a few more minutes as he turns the corner to a main road, “i don’t live here, but it’s not far. i live in the city near the university,” “congratulations,” you mumble, trying to keep your tone dismissive, anything to lessen the nostalgia you’re surely both feeling.
“hey,” he sounds as if he’s pleading, and you allow yourself one glance to his side of the car, taking in the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek, the sadness in his eyes. “yes?” “i just wanted to say it’s good to see you,” he says softly, “i mean, what’re the odds, yknow? we’re both back home and i just happened to see you. it’s like fate,”
“yeah,” you agree quietly, “fate, sure,”
so we could call it even
you could call me babe for the weekend
'tis the damn season, write this down
i'm stayin' at my parents' house
and the road not taken looks real good now
and it always leads to you in my hometown
he pulls into your parent’s drive, keeping the car running but leaning back in his seat to look over at you. “you look good,” he says after a moment, “not that you looked bad before, obviously, it’s just, you’re beautiful-” “shut up, art,” you cut off his rambling, “it was sweet of you to drive me, but thats all this was, okay? this isn’t fate. it’s just a coincidence,”
“even if it is just a coincidence, i’m still happy to see you,” he says quietly, “is that not okay? i missed you,” “shut up,” you repeat, “you didn’t miss me, that’s- this whole thing is ridiculous, okay? enjoy your holiday, art,” “wait! can’t we just talk? i mean, even if its not tonight, we could catch up,” he pleads, eyes wide and borderline frantic. you shake your head, opening your door and pausing to glance back at him, “merry christmas, art. please don’t call,” you go inside trying your best to pretend nothing happened, dodging questions about the car in the driveway and greeting your family. the look on art’s face as you closed the car door keeps you from any real christmas spirit.
you wake the next morning to a text from an unsaved number, your brows furrowed as you open the notification. ‘i know you said you don’t wanna hear from me, but i just wanted to say i’m sorry and it was really nice to see you. wanted to give you a fair warning, your parents invited my family to their christmas party tonight.’
you groan, tossing your phone on the bed and getting in the shower, ignoring the butterflies nerves, in your stomach at the idea of seeing art that night. by six that evening, you’re slightly tipsy off of spiked eggnog, trying your best to ignore him from across the room. he’s there, blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes and a stupid christmas sweater that reminds you far too much of the first holiday you spent together.
you hate the way he mingles with your family so easily, like nothing ever happened. the way he laughs at your dads jokes, the way he’s sipping wine with class he must’ve learned at stanford. the way he keeps looking your way, smiling tenderly, the way he eventually approaches you with all the hesitation of a high school crush.
“you look beautiful,” is the first thing he says to you, sounding almost pained by it. “thank you,” you hope you sound cordial, hope he doesn’t pick up on the way your hands shake around your glass, the way your cheeks are already pink. you tell yourself it’s the alcohol and not the scent of the cologne he’d been wearing all those years ago, the last time you’d seen him.
he looks around, gesturing to the decorations, “good party,” “we don’t have to do this small talk shit,” you say after a moment, “it’s in the past, alright? let’s just get through the party and we’ll all go back to normal,” “don’t you see i don’t just want to get through the party? i’m trying to talk to you here, okay? i missed you, i just wanna catch up,” the pleading is back in his tone, accompanied by his trademark puppy dog eyes, and you find yourself following him onto your parent’s balcony with no hint of the hesitation you’d been full of earlier in the night.
“i saw you on tv,” he tells you after a few minutes of small talk, sipping his drink and glancing at you, the wind rustling his too perfect hair. “yeah?” you smile ever so slightly, “what for?” “it was a news station, i saw it at the airport. you were reporting on the protests in new york,” he smiles back, and your chest aches at the sight. “i’m not usually on tv, i just write the stories, but it was cool. glad to know it’s getting good airport coverage,” you joke, “i’ve seen you on tv a few times myself. wimbledon and all,”
“yeah?” his smile widens, “and what’d you think?” you pause, and you’re not sure if its the eggnog, the nostalgia, or his vulnerable expression, but you find yourself being honest. “i thought you were incredible,” you say softly, “the way you play is just amazing, art. always has been,” “thank you,” you choose to ignore the crack in his voice, “you have no idea how much that means, to hear you say that. that you still even think that,”
“congratulations,” you smile around the rim of your glass, “you’ve won every competition i’ve even heard of. that’s a big deal,” “none of that matters,” he waves a dismissive hand, “i don’t wanna talk about tennis. i wanna hear about you,” “my life is pretty boring,” you shrug, “i write columns and go home and think about work. that’s really all,” “you’re not- are you seeing someone? i figured you’d be married or something,”
“no,” you laugh like its ridiculous, because truthfully, it is. you’d loved him so much that it made the idea of trying to love someone else seem pointless. in the back of your mind, you’d always thought you needed to let it go, to move on, but you never found the time or the willpower. forgetting him and learning someone else was a move you were never prepared to make. “me neither,” his voice snaps you from your thoughts, “not since-”
“i’m sorry i broke up with you,” you blurt out, “it was shitty of me to do it over the phone like that, and i’m sorry,” “oh,” he blinks, looking slightly caught off guard, “no, i mean, it was my fault. i get it, looking back. i’m sorry i didn’t fight harder,” “you were a really good boyfriend,” you say quietly, blinking away hot tears, “like, the perfect boyfriend. it was just too much, being away from you, and i felt like it was just a matter of time before it ended anyway,”
“i never planned on leaving you,” he says softly, “i hope you know that. i loved you more than anything in the world, and i know we were just kids, but i really, really fucking loved you. more than tennis, more than stanford, more than any of that shit. i didn’t care about my future if you weren’t in it, but then you removed yourself from it and i figured i could at least just keep going,”
“i know,” you nod, because you genuinely do know. you know he loved you, how much he cared about your relationship. a moment passes, and you can feel his eyes on you, your heart picking up and a fresh flush prickling your skin. “you are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, and before you can think better of your decision, you’ve set your drink down and turned to him, all your logic gone out the window.
“this is a bad idea,” you tell him, but you’ve already taken a step closer, “and i’m only in town for a bit,” another step, “but i missed you so fucking much, art,” “come show me how much you missed me,” he smiles, his eyes almost as dark as the sky around you, “let’s make up for lost time, yeah?”
you kiss him in an instant, and everything else seems to fall away as you feel his lips on yours for the first time in years. he tastes like sparkling wine and chapstick and everything you love about the holidays, about home. he kisses you with the same desperation he’d always had back then, his hands digging into your hips and pulling you flush against him.
the reality of the evening starts to sink back in as hands progress lower, and you pull away, panting softly against his lips, “cant fuck you in my parents house,” “aw, come on, it’ll be just like old times,” he murmurs teasingly, trailing his lips down your neck. “art,” you whine, “we can’t,” “they’re all busy with the party,” he murmurs as he nips below your ear gently, “do you want me to stop?” “no,” you answer easily, “let’s just- can we go to my room? someone’s gonna see us out here,”
you end up in your old bedroom, sprawled out on the comforter kissing art with a feverish desperation. “missed you so fucking much,” he groans as you unbutton his pants, slipping your hand into his boxers, “god, thought about you all the time,” “yeah?” you smile against his lips, “thought about me all the way in california?” “fuck- yeah, i did,” he bucks his hips into your hand, his cheeks pink, “everyday, every night,”
you hum, satisfied, trailing your kisses down his chest and sliding down the bed, “where you going?” he asks, his brows furrowed. “you don’t want my mouth?” you ask, gazing up at him as you push his boxers down, “no,” he smiles hazily, “no, baby. missed you too much for that, just c’mere. let me fuck you,”
you nearly cry at that, the warmth flooding your chest at his words despite the overall nature of what the two of you are doing. you kiss him again, leaned over him, and he pulls you up into his lap, scooting up to prop himself up against the headboard.
“come here,” he mumbles between kisses, positioning your legs to straddle him, “do you wanna do this?” “‘course i wanna do this,” you nod, and he pushes the skirt over your dress up around your hips, running his thumb over the skin, “you’re so beautiful,”
“stop lookin at me like that,” you mumble, feeling entirely too entranced by the expression on his face, “kiss me,” he’s nothing if not obedient, his lips on yours immediately, kissing you with fervor. you reach between the two of you, sitting up briefly to toss your underwear somewhere, wrapping your hand around him once more to line him up. “god,” he groans softly, tipping his head back as you slide down on his cock, your eyes closed in bliss, “fuck, you’re so wet, god,”
you bury your face in his neck, trying your best to be quiet as you adjust to his size, rocking your hips slowly, “art,” you moan breathlessly, and before you know it he’s cradling your head, pulling you in closer and fucking up into you. you bite down on his shoulder gently, hoping to suppress the noises leaving you, “god, not gonna last,” he all but whimpers, “you feel so fucking good,”
you just moan in response as he hits all the right spots, your thighs shaking slightly as he fucks you, “fuck, baby- oh my fucking god,” he groans, pulling you off of him gently, “didn’t wanna finish inside you,” he pants, eyes closed as he steadies his breathing, “let me,” you say softly, taking him in your mouth, moaning around him at the taste of yourself on his skin.
“oh, fuck me,” he moans, hands tightening in your hair and bucking his hips slightly. he’s filling your mouth soon after, your name falling from his lips like a curse as he cums down your throat, panting and whining hoarsely. you wipe your mouth, sitting up to kiss him again, surprised when he pulls you up closer. “sit on my face,” he mumbles against your lips, “let me make you cum, please,”
“i’m okay,” you start to argue, but he’s shaking his head, looking at you with the sweetest expression, “just let me make you feel good,” you let him lead you, as he lays back on the bed and pulls you up onto him, your thighs on either side of his head.
he laps at you desperately, and you have to clutch the headboard to keep from collapsing against him as you rock your hips, borderline grinding against his mouth. “art,” you moan, one hand on the headboard and one in his hair, “fuck, you’re so good,”
this only encourages him, and he slides a hand under you, pushing gently on your hips to make you rock against his face once more. you whimper at that, digging your teeth into your bottom lip as you feel yourself getting closer. “art,” you gasp, “gonna-“
your vision is spotty as you come undone, his needy mouth never slowing as he works you through it, sucking at your clit until your legs nearly give out. “too much,” you whine, pulling at his hair to deter him. he hums against you, licking one last, slow stripe against you before helping you down, looking up at you with dilated pupils and a spit-slick mouth.
you wipe his face gently with your duvet, smiling slightly down at him, “that was-“ “you were so good,” he praises, “can’t believe how much i missed that,” he pulls the blanket over your legs, and your chest aches at the tenderness of the action. “you shouldn’t stay,” you say softly, hoping it doesn’t come across as hurtful, “i don’t want my parents to see, yknow,”
“yeah,” he nods, but he looks slightly hurt, like he’s taken aback, “yeah, good point. i’ll call you?” “yes, please,” you nod, watching as he pulls his clothes back on, “i’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?” “yeah,” he nods, fastening his belt, “uh, goodnight, then,” “night, art,” you smile sleepily, and he lets himself out without returning a smile of his own.
time flies, messy as the mud on your truck tires
now i’m missing your smile, hear me out
we could just ride around
and the road not taken looks really good now
and it always leads to you in my hometown
the next day, you send him a quick text, slightly worried he’d thought you’d just dismissed him. ‘wanna get coffee today? i leave tomorrow’
‘sure’ he replies, and you’re sure then that he’s hurt, but you hope to rectify it, ‘great! starbucks on third at eleven?’ ‘okay. see you there’ he sends back, and you pull on a sweater and leggings, going to spend some time with your parents before heading out to the coffee shop.
he’s sitting in a window seat when you arrive, much more casual than he had been the night before. he’s in a stanford hoodie and joggers, and you think of him away at college, how at home he’d probably been there. you shake the thought away, walking over to his table, “hey,” you smile, sliding into the booth across him. “hey,” he smiles slightly, “so you leave tomorrow?”
“oh, yeah,” you nod, “gotta get back to work. how long are you in town for?” “told you i moved back,” he says, looking slightly irritated, and you feel a pang of guilt, “yeah, sorry, it completely slipped my mind. so you’re just-“ “what is this, exactly?” he cuts you off, brows furrowed, “i mean, im glad last night happened, but is that just it? you’re gonna shoo me away and go home like nothing happened?”
“what?” you falter, caught off guard, “art, no, i just have to go back home, it’s not like i’m discarding you,” “you sure are acting like it,” he grumbles, “what, then? are we gonna try and make this work?” “make this work?” you repeat, “what, exactly? i figured it was just because we’re both back home, i don’t-“ “what? so what, then, just a one time thing? that’s kinda fucked up to not tell someone,” he snaps, and you hate yourself in the moment, all the memories of the way you’d been so short when you’d broken up with him resurfacing.
“maybe it’s better if it’s just for the weekend,” you say quietly, “i mean, we’re both busy, and this was just by chance,” “bullshit,” he shakes his head, “if you don’t wanna be with me, that’s fine. alright? genuinely, no hard feelings. but don’t give me that ‘we’re both busy shit. what’s the real reason you won’t try again?”
“we both are busy,” you say defensively, “i just don’t- i’d hate for either of us to get hurt again, that’s all,” “i get it, i do, but we’ll never know if we don’t try,” he says softly, “i never wanted to hurt you before, okay? i’ve pictured so many routes for my life and you were always in them,” “we’re different people now, art,” you say carefully, trying to keep your tone even, “you don’t know if we’re still even compatible, and we never know what could happen,” “will you stop doing that? you don’t have to be so calculated about everything. it’s not gonna kill us to try, right? we’ve changed, sure, and we’re at different places in life, but we’re the same people. we’re still the people we were when we were in love,”
“that was a long time ago,” you say quietly, tears pricking your eyes, “i just don’t wanna make a mistake and get us both hurt,” “i’m fine with being hurt by you. don’t you see that? i have loved you since we were sixteen years old. we can get to know each other again, we can take it slow, i’m not asking you to marry me here. just give it a chance, please?” the sincerity in his tone breaks you, and you’re nodding before you can talk yourself out of it. “yeah,” you sniffle, “yeah, i’d like that so much. i’m sorry, i’m just scared, and i didn’t think we’d ever get another chance,” you ramble. “i know you’re scared,” he says softly, taking your hand in his over the table, “we’re gonna take it slow, alright? we’ll be alright,” “yeah,” you nod, tracing his knuckles with your thumb, “we’ll be alright,”
