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1.
Patrick knew he liked men before he knew what liking men even meant. The word bisexual wouldn’t enter his personal lexicon until embarrassingly late, and when it did he tucked it away just as thoroughly as he’d done the other unavoidable facts of himself: rich kid, addictive personality, intelligent but not smart. Self-sabotaging. Big dick. Wasted potential.
Art never had Patrick’s talent. That was obvious enough that a child could see it, did see it in fact, during the very first set they ever played.
“I’m going to win,” Art said anyway, waiting for Patrick to serve, that crooked grin already a tool at his disposal.
“Okay, dickhole,” Patrick said back, thrilled for the opportunity to deploy his newest curse. He’d picked it up lingering near the older kids after mealtime. He curled his toes in his shoes to steady himself, his racket handle growing slick in his palm.
He inhaled deeply, just like his mom had been teaching him to do whenever he got nervous about school, and swung.
Art didn’t win.
A year later, Patrick taught Art how to jerk off.
When Art asked Patrick what he should think about, Patrick said the first girl who came to mind, because the truth of the matter was that no matter how hard Patrick tried to think of anyone else, the only blond that made his body do these new and terrible things was right across from him.
Patrick watched Art close his eyes, imagining what he thought Patrick was imagining. He watched Art come all over himself from pretending to be in Patrick’s mind. He called Art names. Jerk off. Limp dick. A mess.
He’s never forgotten the way Art’s eyes creased in the corners when he laughed.
2.
“Why?” Art frowned. “Why didn’t you turn it in?”
Patrick lowered his head to take a long pull from his straw. When he looked up, Art’s mouth was pulled into a thin line. The Sprite in Patrick’s mouth turned warm, sour. He forced it down. “Do you really think I’d have gotten in?”
“I think you should’ve tried,” Art said. His face was red, anger leaking down his neck.
“You’re so angry.” Patrick tried making a joke of it, jumping instead when Art slammed his hands against the polished metal food court table.
“Fuck you, Zweig.” Art stood, swiped his tray off the table, and stomped to the garbage cans. Patrick stayed hunched over his drink, hands growing hot in a prayer position between his thighs. His eyes focused on the way Art’s belt was starting to crack. The wear must have been new, or else his parents would’ve sent him back from break with ten new belts as a replacement.
Patrick could have followed him, tried to explain why he threw away his application to Stanford. He took another long sip of Sprite and waited.
Art would come back. Art always came back.
“You know what,” Art said, spinning on his heel. Patrick tried not to smile. Art had a finger extended, pointing as he returned to the table. He stood over Patrick, finger in his face, and said nothing.
Patrick turned his head slowly, just enough to see the callouses on Art’s finger, the red raw skin where he chewed at his cuticles. If he took the straw out of his mouth, Patrick could’ve sucked Art’s finger instead.
“What,” Patrick said around the straw.
“I think you’re afraid,” Art said. He paused, waiting for Patrick to argue.
Patrick blinked.
“You’re afraid–” Art continued, “--that I might actually be better than you at something, and instead of facing that, you’re taking yourself out of the competition entirely.”
Patrick chewed on the straw. “Huh.” He sniffed. “Is that all?”
“What–why?” Art narrowed his eyes. He dropped his hand to the table, pressing his fingertips into the condensation pooling around Patrick’s soda. “Am I wrong? Do you need more?”
Patrick shrugged. He sucked the last dregs of Sprite from his cup, then lifted his head, sliding his feet out in front of him to wrap around the legs of the chair Art had just vacated. If Patrick got up and pressed his face to it, the seat would still be warm.
“I just thought maybe you were the one taking themselves out of competition. Shipping yourself off to ‘college’ and all,” Patrick said, meeting Art’s eye.
“Don’t say ‘college’ like that,” Art snapped at him. “Stanford is a real school. It’s a fucking great school. You’re a fucking idiot.”
“Guilty.” Patrick stood. Art didn’t step back. “At least I’ll be an idiot at the US fucking Open.”
“They have tennis at Stanford,” Art said.
“Duh. Why else would you be going?”
Art swallowed. He looked sad. Patrick’s stomach felt too full. “Why didn’t you apply and come with me, like I asked you to?”
“You just told me why I didn’t apply,” Patrick said. Art was going red again. Patrick knew Art would be disappointed when he found out, but he didn’t think Art was going to be like this. Standing there with the bridge of his nose going all red, like he was about to cry. Like he’d been somehow betrayed.
Patrick shouldered past, leaving his tray on the table for someone else to deal with. He turned around a few steps away, calling out to Art, “Do I have to explain everything to you, dickhole?”
Art flipped him the finger, then took off in the other direction. Art was his ride, Patrick was now realizing. Whatever. He’d call a cab or a girl or something.
He didn’t need to explain himself to Art, or to his parents or his coaches or anyone else who kept fucking asking. All they had to do was watch one match, then they’d understand what Patrick was doing. They’d understand his devotion, his unwillingness to succumb to distraction, just because it might mean more backup options down the road. He had the talent to play it risky. What he needed wasn’t a useless college degree in marketing or books or whatever. What he needed was for someone else to believe in him as much as he believed in himself, and to trust him, and give him the room to shine.
He’d thought, up until today, that Art was that person.
Patrick walked faster in no particular direction, tonguing the top of his mouth where the straw had dug in.
3.
Fire & Ice, Tashi had said. Which is which?
Not that it mattered anymore, or even at the time, but Patrick was obviously Fire.
That should’ve been his first clue: Tashi was big fucking trouble.
The way she effortlessly dominated the court.
The way Art’s hand pressed into his thigh every time she pulled out that fucking sick backhand.
That scream.
The way Art looked when he talked about her, all night at the party he didn’t even want to go to. Flush, healthy. Like he’d already come.
The way she looked at them as they smoked, down by the beach. The way she judged him, just like everyone else had, for not being a good little rich kid and going to Stanford. Patrick had felt like a specimen under her gaze and, perversely, he wanted more.
Which is why he’d told her their room number. That, and to see the look on Art’s face.
Patrick could tell by her body language that Tashi thought she was being extremely clever and alluring, getting that story out of him—the one about them jerking off, which Art had made him swear to keep secret. She was clever and she was alluring, but the truth was that Patrick had spent hours trying to finagle a good opener for a threeway. He knew Art wouldn’t offer up the idea.
There was a lot Patrick knew about Art that Art didn’t know. That Art would be very into kissing him if he’d only try it once was pretty much top of the list. Sometimes Patrick thought Art did know he’d enjoy kissing another man, but then that would lead him to wonder why Art hadn’t tried kissing him, if maybe Art was just avoiding kissing him specifically. The thought made him far too sad, and made his serves wobbly anyway. Best all around if he just didn’t think about how he knew the warmth of Art’s breath on his face, but had no idea what he tasted like.
So when Tashi got Art acting bashful and thinking about cum, Patrick thought he would’ve done anything for this woman.
When Tashi let them both kiss her neck, Patrick thought he would happily die.
When Tashi leaned back onto her elbows and Art didn’t just keep going out of inertia, but actually stopped and then chose to slide his tongue into Patrick’s mouth, well. Patrick thought maybe Tashi was an angel, sent specifically to watch over him.
Then Tashi stopped them. Pressed an Adidas sneaker straight through the soft cavern of Patrick’s heart and left him to deal with the void.
Patrick didn’t know how to fix it, to get them back to three minutes ago, before Tashi reminded Art that this was all about her.
For a moment Patrick thought maybe they could jerk off together again, for old time’s sake. Art was hard in his boxers, and Patrick could see how easy it would be for him to reach over and slide a hand into Art’s fly and offer him release. Art might even be grateful. They’d both wind down so much quicker this way, and going to sleep early had been what Art wanted in the first place. It was too late for early, but Patrick could at least get them relaxed.
But then Art was saying some stupid shit about Patrick letting him win, and Patrick knew their moment was over. Gone from Art’s mind like Tashi had put it in her pocket and taken it with her.
So Patrick slapped him in the dick.
Later, Patrick laid in the dark and listened as Art got himself off. He didn’t dare turn to look, but touched his fingertips to his own mouth, memorizing the way Art had felt pressed against him. Opening for him. Giving himself finally, finally, finally.
Later, when Patrick would kiss Tashi in hotel beds, in her dorm, he’d imagine he was a vessel for Art, some small piece of him lingering still on Patrick’s mouth. Patrick was doing him a favor, letting him feel what it was like to dip between her legs and wet his mouth with her.
Art was right. Patrick was a fucking idiot.
4.
Everything happened, suddenly and over the course of a decade.
The fight. Tashi’s knee. Losing Art. Losing money. Losing matches. Losing.
Atlanta. Saunas. Sweating. Losing. Winning Tashi. Winning matches. Winning.
Losing again. Winning but it felt like losing.
Watching TV. Avoiding TV. Googling Art’s name. Selling his laptop. Googling Art’s name at the library, because if it wasn’t in his search history it felt more acceptable, somehow.
Selling plasma. Watching Art lose on a muted TV, hung from the wall for Patrick’s entertainment.
Ignoring calls from his parents. Abandoning the apartment, ensuring their checks were sent back. Return to sender.
Dating. Fucking. Staying over. Eating their food. Jerking off in their showers.
Running. Stretching. Drilling. Knowing he still had it, that no matter what happened to him he could still win. Feeling talent course deep within him, the way he felt his heart rattling in his chest when that fucking Game Changers billboard went up.
Tashi, again.
Art, again.
Let him win, again.
5.
It took Patrick years to figure out Tashi was using him. Using them both.
That she was playing them against each other in the motel thirteen years ago was obvious. Patrick loved it. Loved anything and anyone that lit a spark behind Art’s too trusting eyes.
Which was, he realized all too late, the reason he kept going after Tashi, long after the pursuit had grown pathetic. Art was so prone to languishing in comfort. Patrick loved him, but he’d always, always hated this flaw in Art’s personality. It disgusted him. So much talent gone to seed, and for what? Because he was tired? Who fucking wasn’t.
And now, like a cancer, his apathy was spreading to Tashi. Patrick saw it as he watched her scowl at him in that shiny New Rochelle hotel lobby. Gray fingers grasped at the corners of her, pulling her away.
Someone needed to wake them up.
When Patrick found her again, when he gave her his number on the back of a crumpled Dunkin receipt, he realized Tashi knew. She’d seen what Art could be and instead of loving him enough to push him, she was here trying to… well. Patrick didn’t know exactly what. To stroke Art’s ego, to which she’d attached so much of her own unreachable potential?
Maybe she wanted to rile Patrick up, payback for her perceived victimhood. Maybe it was a dig at Art, a way for her to get back at him for giving up. Maybe she just wanted to watch a good fucking match, for once.
Whatever it was that made her call him, pettiness or anger or fate, Patrick didn’t care. Patrick stood with his arms wrapped around Art for the first time in years, both of them drenched, the net digging painfully into their stomachs. and all Patrick could think was, Thank you. Thank you, Tashi. Thank you for showing me what tennis really is.
1.
Art waits for him after the match. Patrick stumbles into the locker room, his head swimming from exhaustion and delirium at the smell of Art’s sweat clinging to his skin. Art’s still in his prissy Uniqlo kit and is stretching his achilles, both hands pressed to the lockers, his back to Patrick.
“Oh,” Patrick says, despite years of rehearsing what he’d say if they ever met again.
Art freezes, then switches to the other leg. “Was she good?”
Patrick’s mouth goes dry. “Hey…”
“Was she good?” Art repeats, drawing it out. “Did she satisfy you?”
Patrick thinks he might pass out.
Art slams his palm against the lockers. “Goddamnit, Patrick.” He spins around and even though they’ve just spent hours facing each other on the court, this is the first time Patrick’s really seen him. The cut of his jaw knocks Patrick’s breath from his chest. “Answer the question.”
“Yes,” Patrick whispers. He swallows roughly, tries again. “Yeah. It was good. I’m—”
“Don’t.”
“Sorry?”
“Don’t say you’re fucking sorry.” Art crosses his arms over his chest. “I know you’re not.”
They stare at each other. Patrick watches Art struggle to remain standing atop his pillar of moral correctness and makes a decision.
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m not.”
Art’s on him before Patrick knows what’s happening. At first he thinks they’re fighting, and raises his hands to push Art away, or to give him an easier shot. He deserves to be hit, has earned whatever lashes Art wants to give him.
But then Art’s hands are gripping at his waist, and Art’s mouth is at his cheek, his jaw, his neck.
“Tell me how she made you feel,” Art pants into Patrick’s ear. His breath smells like caffeine gel. Peanut butter and chemicals.
Patrick groans and turns his head until their lips meet. Art surrenders immediately, accepting Patrick’s tongue into his mouth like he’s been waiting thirteen years for it. Patrick deepens the kiss and they both moan, hips grinding together without thought.
It’s impossible that this is only the second time they’ve done this. They fit so perfectly together, synchronicity and chaos at once as Patrick turns them around, guiding Art back to the showers, bumping him into several hard surfaces along the way. They’re still dressed when Patrick turns the water on and Art yelps from the shock of cold against his face, but then they’re kissing again and the water’s forgotten.
Patrick doesn’t want to tell Art how Tashi made him feel. Patrick wants to tell Art how Art is making him feel, right now. But Patrick thinks Art might not be ready to hear that quite yet, so he acquiesces and presents his findings in the desired format.
“She made me feel like this.” Patrick grabs Art’s hand and presses it to his cock, hard and straining against his shorts.
Art inhales through his teeth. “What’d she do?”
Patrick grins. “She took it out for me.”
Art’s hands, shaking and stiff from grasping his racket, move immediately to Patrick’s fly. “Like this?”
“That’s right.” Patrick nods.
“Then what?”
Patrick arches a brow. “Then she got on her knees in the back of my car and sucked as much of me as she could.”
Art licks his lips, but doesn’t move.
“Here,” Patrick says. “Let me show you.”
The shower tiles are cold and a little slimy against Patrick’s knees. He doesn’t care, because Art’s hard cock is tenting through the fabric at Patrick’s face. Patrick’s hands are at the waistband of Art’s shorts, and Patrick’s not thinking about how this is the first shower he’s had in days because Art’s hands are in his hair and he’s nodding open-mouthed, giving Patrick permission.
Patrick pulls Art’s clothes away from his body. They fall in a wet smack at his feet, both of them still in their sneakers and socks; it really is a testament to how badly he wants this, because Patrick doesn’t have a second, dry pair to change into.
Exposed, Art’s cock throbs. It’s pink at the end, just like Art’s nose. Patrick’s heart is pounding in his ears. He wants to throw up. He wants to die. He wants to take Art into his mouth and bite, then keep biting, eating him up until Art lives inside of him, where he’s always belonged.
Instead, Patrick wraps his fist around the base of Art’s cock, enjoying immensely the way his rough fingers feel in the fair hair surrounding Art. Of course he’d be gentle, even here. There’s not a single piece of Art that’s rough, unfinished.
Patrick’s going to change that. All he needs is time. A few hundred hours to buff away the polish.
First step: Patrick needs to put Art’s cock in his mouth. So he does. Art is salty and leaking and so fucking hard, the head of his cock sitting heavy on Patrick’s tongue like a ripe piece of fruit. Art squirms as Patrick takes him deeper, pushing himself past the point where he usually gags, breathing deep through his nose. Anything for Art.
“I’m-I’m gonna–close,” Art manages. His nails dig painfully into Patrick’s scalp. The corners of Patrick’s mouth are cracked from dehydration. He’ll pay for this later, but he’s racked up a whole list of sins in the past 48 hours alone, so—get in line.
Art’s cock throbs and Patrick almost chokes. He turns it into a moan and then presses himself further forward, one hand working Art’s balls, the other a hard press against the cut of Art’s hip. Without thinking, Patrick uncurls his middle finger and traces it up between Art’s legs, nothing more than a whisper towards Art’s hole.
It’s enough. Art gasps and shoves at Patrick’s head, pulling himself out as he comes, leaving a trail of himself on Patrick’s tongue, his lips. Across his cheeks and even up into his hair.
“Oh god,” Art groans, falling to his knees. “You’re a mess.”
“Yeah,” Patrick agrees. He feels slow, like his body is moving through jello. He leans to one side and lets the shower wash his face clean. When he opens his eyes again, warm water drips from his hair, down his nose, and into his mouth.
“You came in your lap,” Art says. He’s looking down at Patrick’s cock. Patrick hadn’t really noticed, but sure enough his cock is soft and there’s come pooled in the wrinkles around his fly.
“These were my only clean clothes,” Patrick says, post-nut clarity settling in.
Art kisses him on the bridge of his nose. “You can borrow some of mine.”
“Borrow?”
“Have.”
“I’m tired of taking things on loan,” Patrick says.
“Then let me give them to you.” Art kisses the lids of Patrick’s eyes. “Or you can earn them. Your choice.”
“We’re not talking about clothes, are we?” Patrick asks, his hand a sleepy weight at the back of Art’s neck.
“No.” Art smiles. He leans forward and presses his mouth to Patrick’s, smiling into the kiss. My love, my dear old friend. “We’re talking about tennis.”