#internalised guilt

warnings: suggestive imagery, wlw minor tragedy, men, swearing, inaccurate drug use, manipulation, cheating (emotional)

stanford!reader x stanford!tashi x stanford!art x young!patrick

Why the fuck am I here? Is the first thought that comes to mind as you sit across from Tashi and Patrick, who have become rather used to enacting PDA, especially in front of you. Or at least that’s how it felt, like you were an obstacle in the way of their public love affair. The fork in your hand becomes unnoticed as you mindlessly tapped at your plate- the campus cafe was becoming increasingly more populated just as fast as your appetite decreased while watching the couple. Patrick had just won his match and was being his normal boisterous self, and Tashi was laughing and almost… doting. Sparks of jealousy fly through your body as you watch this exchange, and you can’t help but want to be in Patrick’s shoes. Or Tashi’s. Or in the middle of them. You couldn’t decide, and somehow, you refused to let your resonate with the feeling of wanting both. Tashi pressed a chaste kiss to Patrick’s cheek, and it was like you weren’t even there at that point. 

But while Patrick’s talking in Tashi’s ear, constantly mind you, she can’t help but stare at you. For a couple beats too long. It was in those moments where you remembered that you did, in fact, exist. Then she would turn back to Patrick and‌ ruffle his hair, and it was in these moments where you remembered who was the actual subject of her affection. You made a show of checking your watch, dropping your fork onto the plate, and sighing,

‘’Oh my gosh, sorry, I have a class in fifteen minutes,’’ you lifted your hands in the air in mimicked exasperation, and packed your purse.

‘’Wait- you didn’t even finish your food,’’ Patrick protested, a hand reaching out to grab yours. To get you to stay. But you pulled away as if it meant nothing.

‘’C’mon, stay. Five minutes, that’s all we’re asking,’’ Tashi tried to persuade you, but you were much to set on leaving this affectionate display that only served to fuel your jealousy. But for whom? You couldn’t decide.

‘’I would, really, but I have to go,’’ you waved goodbye, took your purse and left. 

You didn’t have class. In fact, you finished all of your classes for today. You simply made your way to your dorm and spent the entire time thinking about a certain couple. Your back rested against your mattress, which creaked every time you moved, not that it was your fault- Art told you to get rid of the damn bed frame months ago. Simply restless, your fingers stopped fidgeting with each other and trailed beneath your waistband. It seemed to appear that you were seeking some sort of release that was never meant to be physical. So naturally you threw on a jacket and walked up to the rooftop. A long time had passed between after lunch and well, now. 

After reaching the rooftop, the staircase left behind you- speaking of Art, guess who was standing over the skyline? It was the last place you would’ve expected to see him, but then again, you didn’t know him too well. He stood, with his hands in his jean pockets, and lost in thought. You wondered what he was thinking about; what did this Ken doll of a man have to genuinely think about? 

During this time of deciphering him, you didn’t realise he had noticed your presence; and you didn’t notice how your head was clearly tilted to the side, and a look of twisted questioning on your face… then you heard him chuckle. You instantly fixed your face and your posture, as if you were an army soldier.

‘’You’re staring’’, he was fully turned towards you now, a sweet smile on his face. You didn’t trust it. 

‘’Well, at least your vision’s fine,’’ you countered, he chuckled again. You rolled your eyes; shut up, Art Donaldson. He beckoned you closer with a tilt of his head, you grimaced before begrudgingly moving to stand next to him. He leaned on the railing, your arms were crossed, eyeing him cautiously. 

‘’You don’t like me,’’ he remarked, as if it was a fact. Was he wrong? You weren’t too sure, ‘’You don’t know me either.’’

‘’I don’t need to know someone to not like them. Are you saying that I’d like you if I knew you?’’ You questioned, it was borderline teasing. It only served to further your sadism when he got all flustered, stuttering, blushed cheeks, a pounding heart you could almost hear.

‘’No, God- I didn’t mean it like that; I’m not like that,  I swear!’’ 

‘’Not like what? Patrick? Or someone I’d enjoy to be around?’’

‘’Wha- I don’t know!-’’ You cut him off with a laugh and a hand on his. You watched in real time how he calmed down from his flustered state, and then reverted back to it once he looked down at your hand on the railing.

Your. Hand. On . HIS. On. The. Railing.

He couldn’t take his bloody eyes off the sight, you smirked. Before taking it away, it instantly led his back up to yours. 

‘’I’m just teasing.’’

‘’It wasn’t funny.’’

‘’...okay,’’ you hold your hands up in a mock surrender motion. He calms down, actually calms down. Enough for the pair of you to talk.

‘’Why’d you come up here?’’ You asked, looking right into those pathetically-and-chronically-sad baby blues. 

‘’Could ask you the same thing-’’ he avoided your gaze by looking over at the railing.

‘’Art. Why did you come up here?’’

‘’Tashi,’’ he replied too quickly. The boy was squirming, practically. You smirked at his answer. 

‘’Same.’’

‘’Really?’’

‘’Yeah.’’

‘’Do you wanna talk about it-’’ 

‘’Fuck off,’’ you cut him off. He didn’t take it to heart. Would you have felt guilt if he had? He shut his mouth after that, you stared at him. The only sound around you was the heavy breeze of skyline air. You sighed, not entirely sure what provoked you to enact such impulsivity; but you took his chin in your fingers, and by instinct he put his palms on your face. Slowly, but surely you both lean into a kiss. You both wanted it for different reasons, each varying in different degrees of selfishness. But the originally slow and gentle kiss turns into a quick-paced and overlapping one, which ends with you both writhing on the floor in a heated disarray. You don’t quite remember who was on top of who, who first led the collision, or whose fault it was for- lack of better wording, incident. 

All that you knew was that months had passed and you and Art were in a full blown committed relationship; but you both had to dig deep to find actual meaning within that word. Committed- does committed mean dancing to Billy Joel in a dimmed kitchen light while his hands are around your waist? Or does it mean dreaming about the same girl in the same bed, back-to-back? The meaning was lost on both of you. It wasn’t outright said- but you had basically moved into his off campus apartment. You started to develop a routine with him; you would brush your teeth next to each other and spit into the same, shared sink, he handles your coffee just the way you like it- and watches you drink it in case of unsaid complaints, he folds your laundry and puts it away for you without intent to be validated, you’d spend weekends tangled in sheets like everything else meant nothing. Because, what mattered to you and Art Donaldson on a Sunday morning? 

Then guilt arose in your stomach, repeatedly, daily. Each moment spent with him only fueled your repressed self-hatred, because it only ever felt like false domesticity. Was any of this pure and unadulterated? And if it was, why did it always feel like you were just playing house at the end of the day?

Did Art feel the same with you? Or was his delusion and imagination so powerful it overruled any concern he felt about this unconventionality? Unfortunately, the only people who could answer your burning questions were all burned at the stake four hundred something years ago. So caught up in your head, you didn't  realise he was talking to you about his training practice earlier that day- until he called out your name. 

‘’-and the ball just flew straight into the- Y/n? Y/nnnnn? Are you listening?’’ He asks, not unkindly… just concerned. Because yeah, he does notice when your mind drifts and you’re physically with him but not emotionally present. It worries him, it irks at him- actually. He wants to make it all better, to soothe and touch you, but you won't let him. 

‘’Huh? Oh, I’m here.. Sorry. Go on,’’ you turned to look at him. He retold his story, sneaking masked concerned glances at you while the eggs fried on the frying pan that was left on the stove to sizzle. Listening was never your strongest suit, but you rested your head on his shoulder as he talked and talked… and somehow, it comforted you. His stories weren’t all that exciting or fulfilling, but the closeness in proximity felt almost right. This should feel romantic, you should be happy. But those thoughts only made the guilt in your stomach gnaw away at the rotten desire for a loving and consistent partner you had longed for many moons ago. Of course, you had abandoned this desire and all its fruitfulness when you met Tashi. So now the mold continues to grow, and you throw up your insides whenever you get too close to letting yourself have that desire again. 

And then you wondered how much Art thought of Tashi, or was it Patrick was absorbed his mind? Did he feel his gut decaying whenever his mind wandered to him? Maybe Tashi wasn’t top of mind for him. Maybe it was Patrick. Maybe he lied to you on that night that you both crossed paths on the rooftop in a way that only fate could have caused. It was then when you started to ground yourself, back to earth, back into the kitchen, back on Art’s shoulder. The noise had dimmed to just the sizzling of the pan, the silence created a sickening tension for you. But for Art, he just viewed it as warmth. 

Art’s entire life was viewed through rose-coloured glasses that he had chosen to wear, so why would this relationship be any different? Why would you be any different? He took your silences and dismissiveness as something else entirely; not for what it actually was. You were always the first to pull away in any sort of intimacy, but you loved him. He thinks that you love him, and when Art puts his mind to anything, he can convince himself of it. You loved him.

Patrick seemed to haunt his mind daily, he felt guilt; not like you did. He didn’t feel guilty for multiple attempts of breaking up his relationship with Tashi, he didn’t feel guilty for figuring out who you were through them, he didn’t feel guilty for finding out where your safe place was… and when you would go there, and he especially didn’t feel guilty when he played his cards right. You felt guilt for just about anything, and you could label it. But Art couldn’t, and he envied you because of it. He didn’t know why he felt that sickening and maddening feeling in his chest, but he refused to find out.

Eventually, you both ate the slightly burnt frying egg out of the frying pan.  Two forks, on the kitchen tabletop. Art looked at you the whole time, with clear delusion in his gaze. He didn’t need to force himself to love you. 

‘’You don’t like it,’’ he remarked, as he chewed and smiled at you.

‘’What? No, I do.’’ 

‘’You’re looking paler,’’ he teased in a sing-song voice, ‘’you’re getting sick just eating it, c’mon. Admit it.’’

‘’Art, I’m fine-’’ The air shifted for you, noticeably. You had smiled and chuckled genuinely for the first time in his presence. In his warmth. He gently took your fork out of your hand and led you to your shared bedroom; you let him. 

‘’Go to sleep,’’ he murmured as he attempted to tuck you in under the covers.

‘’I will. But not because you told me to- are you seriously tucking me in?’’ You snatched the covers from his hand and nearly pointed a finger at him. 

‘’...No.’’ He sheepishly replied, but got in beside you anyhow. His smile faltered when you turned your back towards him, his huffed and rolled his eyes, flopping onto his back.

‘’Why are you acting like this all of a sudden?’’ He asked, and your response came back confused, naturally,

‘’What are you talking about?’’ You yawned, back still turned to face him.

‘’All hostile. You’re never like this.’’

‘’Go to sleep,’’ He listened this time.

Everything began to feel like a blur since then. You had to question yourself once more on what he meant by you acting “hostile”. How else were you acting before? You had never claimed to be kind or act in false sweetness, so what was he on about? Breakfasts were filled with his sulking, lunches began to stop happening- though he still made you a sandwich, dinners were filled with glances and glares. Yet, through all this, you knew what he wanted: an apology. But you weren’t willing to give anyone an apology unless you knew why they needed one. 

Art knew what he wanted too: you, and an apology. He refused to admit that’s how you truly were, raw and unfiltered. It began to get harder, day by day, to view you in such an optimistic lense; like had always done. He just wanted you to revert back to your angelic nature, he knew you could do it. A little push from him could help, couldn’t it?

You were both sitting at the dining table, stabbing your forks in unsynchronised timing. Another sulky breakfast to add to the list. You sighed, and tried to make conversation.

“Are you going to Tashi’s match today?” You asked, hunched over your plate.

“Yeah. You’re coming right?” He slowly looked up a t you, the pathetic baby blues met your hardened gaze yet again.

“No. Not this one.” You answered, simply. You couldn’t go. You just couldn’t.

“She’d want you to be there.”

“Okay.”

“She’ll be upset if you don’t go.”

“Okay.”

“Can you fucking listen to me?!” His voice raised for the first time, fork clattering onto the plate. You slowly lifted your head up to meet his eye-watered gaze. He stood up from his seat in a loud abruption.

“She’s your best friend, and you can’t spare a little time to go to her match?! What kind of fucking friend are you?!” He proceeded to project his repressed guilt onto you. You stared up at him, biting your cheek, your arms were crossed in defiance. You both stayed like that for a moment or two, before he shook his head and walked out of the door. Like a petulant child on his way to have a tantrum in a shop. 

So, he left you there. Both of your plates are now abandoned; as well as his hopes to fix you up into his next project. He walked in long and speedy strides, all the way to secure his seat for Tashi’s match. You didn’t care for a man’s tantrum, especially if that man is Art Donaldson. A resident superstar, but not in your heart. You simply couldn’t waste your time on another mediocre man.

And then you got the call, “Tashi’s torn her ACL. Come down to the medic room now!” It was abrupt but it still sent a rush of panic in your veins. You rushed down to the medic room, as quick as you possibly could. But each thought that came to mind was nothing but anxiety inducing. By the time you stepped into the hallway, you were huffing and puffing. You weren’t sure if it was the right room- until you heard a familiar voice,

“Get the fuck out Patrick!” Called Art’s voice; you noticed the familiar figure that was Patrick standing in the hallway. He looked lost and torn; not torn between something- but more so as if ribs were ripped out by Art’s bare hands. You noticed the look of almost protest in his eyes, but you knew he was about to cry. He walked away, his head down and staring at the floor. You wanted to ask him what happened, but he was already out the door before you got the chance. So, you walked towards the door where Art’s voice had just rang out from; your jacket folded in your hands. You stood in the open door, without noticing the atmosphere you spoke,

“Oh, Tashi. I’m so so sorry-” Uou were cut off by two frozen figures in the room. Art practically cradling Tashi like she was glass, and Tashi sobbing in his arms. The remorse you felt for Tashi remained; but any lasting feeling of affection for Art had diminished. He stared at you, almost smug, and uncaring. His stares always counted more than his words, and that was the one thing you truly knew about him this whole time. Was this just a fucking competition?

“Go fuck yourself,” You mouthed the words in Art’s direction, a look of grimace on your face once again. You stormed away. 

The rest of your afternoon was spent moving out of Art’s apartment and going back to your dorm. You found yourself sobbing. Full throated sobs escaped your mouths from longing that expanded over a quarter of your life. You didn’t know who you were sobbing over, but it didn’t matter any more. You sat on your floor, with your hands wrapped around your stomach. The day passed by into night time and you watched by your windowsill. Your flip phone buzzed and you flicked it open to find a text from Patrick, 

“do u wanna talk”

“about what?”

“i heard what happened js letting u know i’m here 4 u”

“you’re only here for me to get high.”

“yea but still here tho”

True that, you thought to yourself. It was weird, men not... outright lying to you about what they really wanted; and what they were willing to give. 

“i’m at the parking lot”

“do u wanna come”

“pls”

You rolled your eyes, was it that hard to spell a grammatically correct sentence? A simple comma would’ve sufficed.

“i’ll be there soon.” 

You flicked your phone shut and put on your boots and tied your hair up. You couldn’t believe that you were really doing this. This was a bad idea, a bad, bad idea; and Patrick Zweig was a bad idea in human form. Nevermind processing your emotions, this didn’t need to turn into anything. It’s just a catch-up, an opportunity to hash out between friends. Nothing more.

You made your way to the address of the abandoned parking lot, you saw how his eyes looked puffy; you weren’t sure if the cause was his tears or the weed he was smoking. The blunt lingered in between his fingers like an old friend, you walked up to his car. Once he spotted your moving figure, he blew the smoke out of his mouth. He didn’t try to beckon you closer, or force a smile, he just stood there; waiting. You stood by his side, finally. 

‘’You started without me,’’ you teased, ruffling his hair. He playfully smacked your hand away.

‘’You took too long,’’ he murmured, voice all breathy. Like he either just smoked a six-pack or ran a mile. He did both.

‘’Did not,’’ you tsked, stealing the blunt from his calloused fingers. You both were leaning against his truck’s boot. You took a drag, before looking back at him. You slowly moved in front of him, pressing the blunt to his lips. He stares right back at you, and lets you. His eyes were blue, but deep-sea blue; you wanted to dive right in. And if you did, you’d sink through his sea of baggage and loneliness; and inevitably drown. His slightly chapped lips wrap around the blunt, taking a deep inhale, before you take it away from his lips; and he blows it out away from you. His eyes were bloodshot, yours were too. You both had your presumptions, but wouldn’t accuse. You placed the blunt back in his fingers, and he let it rest on his make-shift ash tray: a dirty dish towel on his rusting pick-up truck.

‘’What happened?’’ You asked, voice softer than it originally was.

‘’Told her I didn’t wanna be a part of her fan club,’’ he didn’t beat around the bush, and just told you straight up. He was simply so refreshing in an environment of surrounding smoke, in which he inhaled and exhaled; as did you. He looked back at you, ‘’I don’t want to know,’’ Oh, the weight rose right off your shoulders at that moment. 

Time passed as well as the blunt between you two; until it ran out in your fingers. It was then when the spark turned into ash, and became useless and worn once it was burned out. To compare yourself to a blunt would be derogatory, but the truth has to cost something. Patrick noticed you fiddling with the lifeless tobacco wrap, and absentmindedly smoothed your ponytail for you. He picked it out of your hand and stuffed it into his pocket. Step by step, you both realised how there was no more distance left in between you two. You practically were merged into one, he hesitantly leaned his face closer into yours- and the inevitable happened. 

It was fast-paced, genuine and full of longing in the way it went from soft kisses, to harsh and longer ones where you had to fight to suck air back into your lungs; until you ended up in the backseat. Curled up into his chest after such an event happened between you two, bruises laid on your individual necks. Touch didn’t need to mean sin, no. Not when he was stroking your messed up hair, and you were near dead asleep in his embrace. 

‘’This doesn’t have to be anything. But… it could be.. Something,’’ he speaks. His watchful eyes still full of yearning began to shut.

‘’Something sounds good,’’ you mumbled in an incoherent reply. You both fell asleep like that.