Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Wanna smoke?” 

It’s the first thing Patrick says to Art once they’re finally alone, after the awards have been handed out and the reporters have been indulged and the photos have been taken.

He doesn’t wait for an answer — unfairly confident — and turns on his heel, sauntering off.

Art follows. He always follows .

Patrick doesn’t lead him around the corner of the locker room building, like Art expects, but to the parking lot. To his car. As they approach, he spares a brief glance over his shoulder, hiding the smug tilt of his mouth.

He calls, “Get in.” So Art gets in.

It’s silent, in the car, as Patrick drives them to his crummy hotel — well, hotel is a generous word for it. Really, it’s more of a motel , this cheap old thing with its faded paint job and the rotating VACANT sign with its first two letters burnt out. 

CANT CANT CANT blinks back at Art through the windshield. It feels like an omen, or something. He looks out the window instead.

Patrick parks, crooked, a few spaces down from the door to the front office, and he doesn’t wait for Art to get out of the car before he leans across the center console and reaches for the glove compartment. The side of his hand clips Art’s knee, as Art draws his leg up and plants his foot, and their eyes meet, briefly, before Patrick’s flicker back towards his end goal.

He bumps open the glove box and rifles through it, knocking around stacks of napkins with various logos and wads of crumpled receipts and— a few condoms, until he finds what he’s looking for.

Cigarettes. Camels still — he always did like the cheap shit, even back when he could afford more. 

Art watches Patrick slip his lighter from the cup holder, then he shoulders the door open and leaves the car. 

This time he does wait for Art before he starts to walk. They follow the sidewalk all the way to the end of the row of rooms, eight in total on this side, boasting chipped blue doors and rusted silver numbers nine through sixteen screwed haphazardly into their centers. Room sixteen comes and goes, and Patrick rounds the corner. Up ahead, there’s a break in the path, then another stretch of rooms. Patrick keeps walking.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going, or am I just supposed to follow you blindly and hope it’s not some fucking— crack den or something?”

Amusement spreads across Patrick’s face, crinkling his eyes, and he chuckles lightly. “Come on, Art. A crack den? Really? I thought you knew me better than that.” 

“I don’t know you at all,” Art says bluntly, before he can think better of it.

He doesn’t miss the way Patrick’s smile falters. Or the return of the melancholic thing that had softened his eyes in the sauna the day before. 

Or the way Patrick ignores it.

“We’re not going to a fucking crack den,” he says, leading Art through the alcove between the buildings. A glowing vending machine hums to their left, an overflowing trash can to their right.

Patrick offers no further details, and Art doesn’t ask again. He doesn’t really need to, though. Their destination becomes quite apparent once they emerge from the other end, and there, a few feet away, is the motel pool.

It’s dark enough that the lights outside of each room have flickered on (well, most of them have, anyway), but there are no main lights for the pool. Clearly, it’s meant to be closed. But that doesn’t stop Patrick from wrapping a hand around the wrought iron gate and pushing it open. The hinges squeal, sharp and grating, but no one comes running to tell them off. The only illumination down here is the dusty pink and orange of the sky as the sun sinks below the high-rises and the glow of the pool lights, which turn the water a murky, radioactive green.

Four plastic chaise lounge chairs litter the concrete deck, along with three of the regular kind, one of which lies overturned by the ladder rails at the deep end. 

There’s no one else there at this hour, which is probably more likely because the pool, as one could guess, has not received the thorough cleaning it very much needs after last night’s wind storm. (The sad thing is, it probably never will; Art’s willing to bet some of those floating dead bugs and cigarette butts have been there longer than he’s been alive.)

Patrick pays the debris no attention, walking past the chairs and straight to the edge of the pool. He kicks off his slides and unceremoniously drops himself to the ground, dunking both feet right into the water. It laps at the downy hairs of his mid-calf. 

Art sits down more gingerly beside him, refraining from wrinkling his nose lest Patrick catch wind of his distaste and ask, none too kindly, if his lifestyle offends Art’s delicate rich boy sensibilities (pot, meet kettle). He keeps his shoes on — the same beat up pair of Adidas slides he’s had since the Mark Rebellato days; he couldn’t bear to part with them, and, loathe as Tashi is for him to say, Uniqlo’s designs are ugly as sin — but lets the toes hang over the lip of the concrete. He hugs his knees to his chest.

Patrick shakes loose a cigarette, sticking it between his teeth and setting the pack aside before cupping a hand around the end and thumbing the lighter. A tiny orange glow flickers to life, and Art watches from his peripherals as Patrick touches it to the cigarette.

“So it’s been… twelve years?” Patrick asks around the filter. He inhales deeply, and when he finally lifts it from his lips he blows the smoke in a steady stream past Art’s ear. He holds the cigarette out towards Art, an offering.

Art shakes his head. “Thirteen, actually,” not that he’s counting , “and, no, thanks, I quit,” he says. “Tashi wanted me to.”

It feels weird to say her name here. Feels a little bit like an invocation, Repeat Tashi Donaldson three times in the mirror while spinning in circles and she’ll appear right behind you .

“Right,” Patrick muses and takes another drag. “What have you been up to for thirteen years?”

Art’s eyes roll towards him with an unimpressed slant. “As if you don’t already know that,” he says. His lips press together and he tilts his head at Patrick, daring him to contradict.

Patrick shrugs one shoulder. “Sure I do,” he says. Knocks the same shoulder into Art’s. He’s close enough to do that. “But I want to hear it from you.”

“Well,” Art starts, sitting up and locking his elbows in before his body releases all at once, like a puppet with its string cuts. He sags forward against his knees, glancing over at Patrick. “I stuck it out at Stanford,” he says, “graduated in 2011. But, uh, college tennis wasn’t exactly enough.” Art laughs, embarrassed. As if saying that is some sort of brag . (It isn’t, really.) He reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck, and his shoulder twinges a little, reminding him that he needs to do his stretches later.

“I found myself a coach in, like, 2009. Started playing professionally in 2010— that’s actually how Tashi found me.” Art spares a sidelong glance at Patrick. The cigarette is pinched between his fingers, and he’s staring at it intently, brows creased. He’s nodding along, though, to show he’s listening. So Art continues, “She, uh, found me at some tournament in Ohio. She was there as uh— I forget her name, some girl’s hitting partner. But, um,” he shrugs, picks at a scab on his knee, “we reconnected, and not long after she signed on to be my coach, and, y’know, after training with her for a couple months, I got better.”

Patrick’s mouth twitches.

“We started dating. Then in 2011, I proposed,” Art says, a fleeting smile ghosting across his face as the memory flashes through his head — Washington D.C., the mid-April cherry blossom festival, pretty pink petals floating down around her as she stared at him in surprise, down on one knee. “She said yes, we were engaged.” 

A laugh — a barely there, half-hearted huff of air. “Engaged,” Patrick muses, “right.”

“Right,” Art confirms. Lets an obsequious smile spread across his face. “You saw the ring, didn’t you?” He cocks his head at Patrick, raising an eyebrow.

Patrick meets his eyes, and he looks— pleased , the bastard. Like he’s proud of Art for this little passive aggressive display. He chuckles, low. Short, staccato bursts. The grin grows.

But Art doesn’t say anything more about it. Tashi and Patrick— Atlanta, it’s old news. It’s not something Art bothers to waste his anger on, and it never really was, even then. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Tashi did what she did, so did Patrick, and it’s Art here now, isn’t it?

So he breezes past it. Doesn’t give Patrick the satisfaction.

“We got married a year later,” he continues, and his thumb absently twists his wedding ring around his finger. “Tashi wanted a spring wedding.”

Patrick hums. “I remember the spread in People magazine,” he reflects. 

Art remembers it too — the pages and pages filled with the muted earth tones of their wedding, cream and clay, spring sage and soft peach. Tashi’s choosing, of course. Photos of Tashi looking radiant in her beautiful charmeuse gown, simple and elegant, pouring down her body like water. Comments on Art breaking tradition in his sandy brown suit rather than the usual black. That one photo of the two of them that circulated the tennis channel for weeks after the wedding — foreheads pressed together, tips of their noses touching, eyes closed and matching tender, adoring smiles on their faces. Tashi’s hand cupping Art’s cheek, and his arm curled so gently around her waist, palm flat against the small of her back, holding her close.

It’s an intimate photo. Art kind of wishes he could’ve kept it for himself.

He squirms. It’s not something he likes, all the attention that comes with being a professional athlete. He never has. Celebrity isn’t something he’ll ever get used to, he thinks, and fading into obscurity, in fact, is something he looks forward to in retirement. 

Swallowing that discomfort down, Art narrows his eyes at Patrick. “This isn’t too hard for you to hear, is it? I mean, you wouldn’t rather not?” He asks, despite himself. A stretch of blue court, warm hands grasping his wrists; an echo, warped and mirrored back.

A flicker — recognition; nostalgia, maybe — in Patrick’s eyes. “No,” he says, and he bares his teeth. “I’m very happy for you.” His thumb taps against the cigarette filter, then adds, “Besides, I asked, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Art agrees. Then, not pulling his punches, he says, “Tashi got pregnant in the fall, Lily came the next summer.” 

“ Lily ,” Patrick repeats, slow and precise. He takes a long drag of the cigarette after. 

“Tashi picked her name,” Art tells him. “She wanted to name her after her grandmother,” he adds. 

Patrick raises an eyebrow.

“Her middle name is Alma,” Art supplies. After his grandmother. 

The brow pulls in to meet the other, regretful and sorry, but Patrick’s lips press together to curve into something gentle and brimming, sympathetic.

Art feels an ache somewhere behind his ribcage.

“I was sorry to hear about her,” Patrick says, sincerely. The cigarette burns away in his right hand, and he reaches out his left, touches Art’s knee.

Art stares hard at the point of contact, swallows back the wave of emotion that always threatens to overwhelm him whenever his grandmother is brought up.

“Yeah,” he says, an acknowledgement.

Patrick’s thumb brushes softly against the cap, back and forth, back and forth, then he squeezes Art’s knee and draws his hand back. Almost like he’s afraid that holding on too long will upset the delicate balance of things.

Art doesn’t think it could. Patrick’s touch always had the opposite effect. It still does.

“You got a picture of your kid?” Patrick asks, bumping his shoulder into Art’s. A short retreat; he could never stay too far out of Art’s orbit, no matter how hard he tried.

Does he have a picture. Hah.

Like the proud parent he is, Art slides his phone from the pocket of his shorts and pulls up the photo album specifically dedicated to Lily. He scrolls through until he finds his favorite picture of her.

It’s from her sixth birthday, just a few months ago. She’s sitting on the couch in her pink poofy princess dress, the straps of her favorite pair of glittery fairy wings slung over her shoulders. She wore those things just about every day since she got them for her fifth birthday the year before; the tip of the right wing was a little bent and there was a teeny tiny hole in the delicate fabric of the left one, but Lily didn’t care. She wouldn’t let Art or Tashi try to fix them or to replace them. She’s got a plastic silver tiara sitting jauntily atop her wild curls, and there’s a smile stretching from ear to ear — so big that it squishes her entire little face. Her missing front teeth are on full display, and the tip of her little tongue pokes through the space. Teeth — plural . Tashi had been privately furious when Lily managed to knock them both out right before picture day, but that year’s photos ended up being Art’s favorites; he keeps one in his wallet, tucked carefully in front of a polaroid he snapped of Tashi on one of their first dates and a faded, frayed photo of two shaggy haired boys, kissing their trophies, staring brightly into one another’s eyes over top. 

In the photo, Lily’s eyes are so squinted from the force of her smile they’re practically closed, and her nose is all scrunched up and wrinkly. She is surrounded by gift bags and tissue paper, clearly in the midst of present time, but squeezed tightly in her arms is the latest one, which had ended up being her favorite — the world’s most hideous stuffed animal. 

A quiet cough to his right pulls Art out of his reminiscing, and he schools the gooey soft grin that had melted his mouth into something tidier. He laughs a little, bashful, and turns the phone so Patrick can see the screen. 

“This is from her birthday in May,” Art tells him. “It’s, um, it’s called a Tarsier , the thing she’s holding” Art clarifies and chuckles again, shaking his head. He can’t help it as that fond smile pulls at his cheeks. “It’s got the biggest, freakiest eyes and these weird spindly fingers, and— it’s the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Art wheezes out another laugh, and Patrick snorts beside him, “but Lily saw it on the Discovery channel one time and she was just,” he shakes his head fondly, shrugs a helpless shoulder, “obsessed.” 

Patrick’s chuckles peter off, and he keeps his gaze fixed on the photo, silent and unmoving as he drinks in his fill. He has to reach out and poke the screen when it dims.

“She looks…” Patrick trails off, and there’s this— this gentle awe , in his eyes.

“Just like Tashi, I know,” Art fills in. “She’s her spitting image.” 

Patrick tears his gaze from the photo to look at Art instead, eyebrows lifting in surprise, almost like… like he hadn’t expected Art to say that. Like he hadn’t been thinking it. “No,” Patrick says. “I mean— she does, but, that’s not what I was going to say.” 

Art raises his eyebrows, waits for Patrick to elaborate. 

Patrick’s eyes drop to the photo again, and he laughs, shakes his head. Looks back at Art with the most achingly tender tilt to his mouth and a glossy shine to his eyes. “I was going to say,” he says, “she looks just like you .”

Art’s brows furrow. “Me?”

Patrick nods. “Yeah, it’s—” he laughs again, a fond thing, and his hand raises to gesture towards the center of his own face, “her nose. The scrunch— you used to make that same exact face.” 

“ Oh ,” Art exhales. He keeps his eyes trained on Patrick, afraid that if he looks down he’ll see the mangled remains of his insides, his guts and viscera and all the important organs, scooped clean out and spilled right between them. That’s certainly what it feels like, as he struggles to catch his breath in the aftermath.

“I, um.” Art swallows. Taps the screen of his phone before it can go completely dark. Lily’s face beams back at him, bright and tiny and perfect. He lets out a wet laugh and presses the power button. The screen goes black, and Art squeezes his phone in his hand. “I guess she does,” he says, and when he looks over at Patrick again, he’s still got that look on his face. Unbearably soft; ridiculously gentle.

It stirs something in Art, something buried deep. Something he hasn’t let himself think about for— for years . Thirteen of them, just about. His chest aches, and his gut churns, and he yearns . For what could have been. For what still could be .

It’s dangerous — he’s at the cliff’s edge, and he can feel the dirt and pebbles slipping away beneath his feet. Priming him to fall, if he doesn’t back up.

Art reaches over and plucks the cigarette right out from between Patrick’s teeth, catching him off guard. That ardent look disappears (thank god), replaced by one of surprise. It quickly morphs into smugness, pursing his lips and crinkling his eyes as he watches Art balance the cigarette between his fingers. 

“Thought you quit,” Patrick says, and he sounds smug too. Like he knew this would happen. (And the thing is — he did . He knows Art. Always has, always will.)

“Yeah, well,” Art says, taking a long drag. He holds it in, lets it fill his lungs, and, he’s missed that. The taste of smoke. The prickle at the back of his throat. That warm, familiar burn. Finally, he opens his mouth and lets the smoke curl out on its own.

“Hot,” Patrick comments, serious. But then his grin blossoms, unfurling across his face like a spring flower, bright and full, and he’s laughing, and then Art’s laughing too, coughing around the smoke, which only makes Patrick laugh harder.

And as they sit there, doubled over like fools, Art feels another chunk of the ledge crumble away. 

He hands off the cigarette, just to get Patrick to shut up, so he can find his footing. 

It only half works; Patrick goes quiet as he wedges the cigarette between his teeth, leaning back on his hands and staring out across the surface of the pool. Beneath it, his legs drag back and forth, sluggish.  

The silence that settles between them isn’t uncomfortable. It never has been, and Art is grateful that at least that hasn’t changed. 

His eyes flicker over towards Patrick, who is watching the ripples of the water with a glazed over sort of focus, like he too is stuck somewhere up in his head. The cigarette hangs from the side of his mouth, burning away.

Art takes advantage of Patrick’s inattention and lets himself look — really look.

Without the mask of the hallmark smirk that’s defined him since they were kids, it becomes stark just how different from that kid Patrick is now. 

He looks older, the softness of his skin at seventeen replaced with something a little rougher, a little more worn. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes are more prominent, his frown lines too. His hair is just as unruly as it was back then, but it’s shorter now, and Art’s eyes zero in on a tiny scar exposed near his hairline. It wasn’t there thirteen years ago, he doesn’t know this one’s story. There’s a gauntness to Patrick’s cheeks now, and they’re covered in a couple days old beard, too. It turns reddish gold in the last rays of sunlight.

Art didn’t know that, either. 

Something pangs in his gut, sends an ache through his chest.

“I can feel you staring,” Patrick says, without moving. He keeps his eyes down, but Art can see they’re sharper now. Alert. 

“I’m not,” he denies automatically.

“You are,” Patrick croons, lips quirking as his head finally lolls towards Art. There’s that smirk again. He looks seventeen and thirty-one all at once. 

And it hits Art then — that even though there are so many things that have changed, there are still so many that have stayed exactly the same. 

Comfortable silences. Patrick’s stupid smirk. The thing in Art’s chest and in Art’s head and in Art’s heart, every time he’s near Patrick.

Feelings . Big ones. Strong ones. Ones that have not wavered, not even once, across thirteen years. They overwhelm Art. They exhilarate Art. 

They scare the shit out of Art.

Patrick cocks his head. The cigarette dangles precariously. “What?” 

And Art — he can feel the words, crawling up his throat. The enormity of his desire, the magnitude of his… of his love . It’s sitting there, right on the back of his tongue, waiting to spill out.

He snatches the cigarette. There’s barely anything left of it, but Art takes a hasty pull anyway. “Nothing,” he says. Then he makes an executive decision and stands. Stretches out his legs. “I should probably go.” He pinches the butt of the cigarette and flicks it to the ground. Looks up at Patrick finally. “Tashi probably wants me back.”

Art doesn’t miss the way Patrick’s face falls then hardens, but he doesn’t let himself linger on it. 

He turns for the gate and makes it two steps forward when the hand circles his wrist, strong fingers catching him in a tight grip.

Art freezes. He turns slowly, staring down at the point of contact for a surprised beat before his eyes flicker up.

Patrick’s eyes are piercing, zeroed in on Art with such gravity.

“You know,” he says, and his mouth twists ruefully, “you keep saying that. Tashi wants, Tashi wants .” Patrick dips his head, looks right into Art’s eyes, right into his soul , and asks, “What do you want, Art”

“I—” Art falters.

Something in him cracks. Or maybe that’s the sound of it clicking into place. He doesn’t really know. All he does know, is one second he’s staring hard at Patrick’s nose to avoid that intense stare, and the next, that nose is knocking into his as he presses his mouth firmly to Patrick’s.

It catches Patrick off guard — something Art takes great pleasure in; it is a rare thing for him to surprise Patrick Zweig — but Patrick is quick to get on the same page.

His lips slot into place against Art’s, and he brings just as much fervor to the kiss as Art does. Patrick’s hands fly up to cradle Art’s face, big and warm on either side, and his tongue swipes across Art’s bottom lip.

Art opens up for him. Lets Patrick invade his mouth, his space, his brain , until he owns it all.

They get swept up in it, the need to press closer and closer, as close as possible, and then impossibly closer still. In the throes of it all, they forget where they are, their whole world narrowed down to each other, this kiss. 

Art surges forward, and Patrick staggers back from the force of it. As his foot comes down, it doesn’t connect with concrete, instead catching the edge of the pool, only not enough. He wrenches back, eyes going wide, and Art only has half a second to blink, dazed and confused, before Patrick crashes into the water.

Art lunges, trying to catch Patrick’s hand, but he’s too slow, and his fingers close around air. He sinks down to his knees at the side of the pool, ignoring the harsh scrape of concrete against skin and bones, and leans over the lip. 

Patrick surfaces a foot away, looking like a drowned rat. His curls are flat against his forehead, dripping down into his eyes, and he wipes them away, spitting out a mouthful of water with a disgusted blech . 

It takes him a second of reorientation before he spots Art, and when he does he lets out a big, boisterous laugh. “I can’t believe you just pushed me,” he cries.

An indignant squawk bursts from Art. “I did not!”

“You did,” Patrick insists, starting to swim back towards Art. His legs frog kick out behind him, propelling him forward. “You totally did. You pushed me in with your distracting lips.” His eyes flicker down to the lips in question, and amusement stretches them wide. 

Art feels himself flush under Patrick’s hungry stare.

Once Patrick’s close enough, Art extends a hand. Patrick’s fingers are slippery, but Art’s grip is tight, and he helps reel him back in. Patrick doesn’t let go, but he adjusts his own grasp, sliding his hand up Art’s wrist and over his forearm. He uses this newfound leverage to simultaneously hoist himself up and drag Art down, catching his mouth in another searing kiss. 

Their teeth clash, but Patrick’s quick about course-correcting, sinking his teeth into Art’s lower lip before sucking it into his mouth. Art’s lips part in a silent gasp, and Patrick’s tongue dips in. 

It brushes against Art’s, and he tastes chlorine, and underneath it, Patrick , the intoxicating headiness of him. It leaves Art’s head spinning, and he almost loses his balance too. One hand shoots out, managing to catch the edge of the pool, and the other flies towards Patrick’s shoulder, steadying himself with a firm grip.

Patrick’s arms curl around Art’s neck. The palm of his left hand slides into Art’s hair, and his right hand snakes back around, cupping Art’s neck just below his ear. His thumb presses into Art’s pulse point, and Art is sure Patrick can feel how insanely his heart is racing.

His hold is tight on Art, and he keeps clutching at him even as he starts to sink a little, legs growing tired from treading water. Art teeters, and he almost actually does get pushed in— well, pulled in, this time. 

“Patrick,” he mumbles against Patrick’s lips, unable to bear the thought of parting far enough to actually have a conversation.

Patrick hums, but doesn’t let up, licking the back of Art’s teeth.

“Patrick,” Art repeats. “ Patrick . Get out,” he finally manages. “Out, out, out.”

He does finally wrench himself away, if only so he can pull at Patrick’s wet shirt, urging him to get the fuck out of the water so they can move this to somewhere easier for Art to get his hands all over Patrick. Patrick’s hands all over him . 

There’s a ladder a mere foot away, but Patrick ignores it in favor of planting his hands flat against the concrete right in front of him and using his upper body strength to heave himself up. 

Art scrambles to his feet and crouches down, reaching out to grab at Patrick’s arms and help him out. 

Patrick is on him the second he’s on two feet again.

Pressing the length of his soaking wet body to Art’s. Still clutching him like if he doesn’t, Art will disappear. It’s a reasonable concern.

But Art isn’t going anywhere. He loops his arms around Patrick’s waist, fingers digging into the wet fabric of his shirt, the skin beneath. He’s sure he’s leaving a set of ten purple smudges, stark against the soft skin of Patrick’s hips, but the thought of that — of his mark, his fingerprints on Patrick’s body — just drives him even more insane.

“We should,” Patrick pants into Art’s open mouth, “go inside,” his teeth graze Art’s lower lip, “before I can’t stop myself,” nipping sharply, “and I fuck you right here,” he whispers hotly before his tongue slips out, slides against Art’s. 

The shiver that runs down Art’s spine has nothing to do with the water seeping into his own clothes.

They stumble back to Patrick’s room, pausing every few feet so Patrick can press Art into the railing, the wall, the god damn hedges, to kiss him within an inch of his life.

Art gives as good as he gets, though, slipping frisky fingertips beneath the waistband of Patrick’s clinging shorts, sliding a palm up the front of his shirt, over his stomach but not higher. Feeling him up. Teasing . A taste of what’s to come.

Finally, finally , they make it to Patrick’s room. 

Art’s back hits the door, and Patrick crowds him against it, lips trailing to Art’s neck as he fumbles the key from his pocket and blindly tries to stick it into the lock.

The scrape of the key as it misses the hole for the third time makes Art puff out a laugh, and Patrick lets out a frustrated growl in response. Art feels it vibrate down to his toes.

“Come on,” he urges, and Patrick huffs. 

“I’m trying,” he insists.

A couple of colorful curses slip out after as the key misses again , and Patrick resigns himself to detaching from Art so he can actually see what he’s doing.

“Fucking door,” Patrick muters, and Art tucks his face into Patrick’s neck to laugh, breathless.

The door finally swings open behind Art, and he stumbles back over the threshold, only managing to keep his balance thanks to his arms around Patrick’s waist.

Patrick’s barely through the door after him when he yanks his wet shirt over his head and flings it carelessly to the side. It lands with a squelch, half under the desk. The door slams a second later.

Art’s fingers curl into the neck of his own shirt, and he pulls it off to join Patrick’s in the corner.

Patrick sticks his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts, making sure to catch Art’s eyes before he starts to shimmy them down his legs, making a show of it. Inch by tantalizing inch, the bare jut of Patrick’s hips, the soft skin just above his pelvis, a peek of the wiry curls that frame his— oh.

Oh .

Fuck. No underwear. 

Patrick’s smirk starts in the left corner of his mouth, gradually pulling the rest of it in until it stretches wide and wicked.

Art swallows, but he is determined not to let Patrick get the upper hand here. 

With a grin of his own, Art tugs his shorts all the way off in one fell swoop. He lifts the fabric, letting it dangle from his finger for a second before he tosses the shorts aside. Straightens to his full height.

It has exactly the effect Art wants; Patrick freezes in place, eyes locked onto Art’s lower half, clad in nothing but his tiny, tight blue briefs.

They were Tashi’s idea, the briefs. Meant to increase his range of motion on the court, but Art ended up liking them for more than that. They were comfortable for one, but, even better, they hugged his ass so nice, his cock too, and they made his thighs look great to boot. 

They’d driven Tashi a little wild the first time she saw him in them, and they’re driving Patrick a lot wild here in this moment, too. It’s all over his face — the slack jaw, the hungry eyes, like he wants nothing more than to pounce and tear them off with his teeth.

And, oh, what an image that is .

It makes Art feel powerful, and that sends a shiver down his spine.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare, or are you going to do something about it?” He taunts, sticking a hand on his hip. He raises one single eyebrow, a challenge.

“Fuck, Art,” Patrick finds his voice. Finds his legs, too, as he tries to take a step towards Art, but the shorts — long forgotten — are still only a quarter of the way down his thighs, and restrict his movement.

Patrick pitches forward a little, but he and Art reach for each other at the same time. They catch each other by the elbows, and Patrick only lets go of one after that so he can shove at his shorts until they pool around his ankles. The second he kicks them away, his hands are back on Art, only this time lower, grabbing at Art’s ass, squeezing through the fabric. 

Art groans, and Patrick catches Art’s mouth, swallows the sound, still kneading at his ass as he walks Art backwards towards the bed.

The backs of Art’s knees hit the mattress, and he sits. Scrambles back as Patrick lets go of him to push at his chest instead. In the middle of the bed, Art props himself up on his elbows, and his legs fall open to make room for Patrick.

Patrick fills the space, fitting himself nicely — perfectly — between Art’s thighs. One big hand curls around the left one from the underside, and Patrick dips forward to kiss the inside of Art’s knee, the sensitive skin halfway up, the crease where leg meets torso. Patrick’s close enough that his cheek ghosts against the curve of Art’s dick, where it’s still nestled in his underwear. 

Art can just make out the smirk playing across Patrick’s lips before they pucker against his inner thigh again, kissing softly, tenderly. Then the sharp sting of a bite blooms through Art, and he gasps.

Patrick chuckles into the skin as he laves over it with the flat of his tongue, then he closes his mouth around it and sucks. The skin tingles, and Art knows there will be a bruise. Dark and purple and tucked away somewhere secret. Where only he will know. 

It sends a pulse through his dick.

That close, Patrick notices, and he laughs again, low in his throat. “Easy, boy,” he chides, then surprises the hell out of Art by licking a long, hot stripe over the front of his briefs.

Art’s whole body jerks, and he’s helpless to stop the moan from falling past his lips.

“Jesus,” he whines, “ Patrick .”

Patrick takes it as encouragement. He mouths over Art’s dick, too much and not enough at the same time. Dark blue turns even darker as Patrick’s spit clings to the material.

Art winds his hand into Patrick’s hair — something to grab onto, something to ground himself with. His curls are a little matted from the chlorine, but Art finds a firm grip. Holds on tight.

Still through the briefs, Patrick noses at Art’s dick. Traces his lips down the side. His breath is hot and heavy against the fabric — wet with his spit and everything Art’s dripping beneath. Patrick’s tongue flicks out and finds the head, traces the ridge of it with the point.

Art’s body seizes as he tries to keep control over it, and his hand in Patrick’s hair instinctively pulls. 

A high keen tears from Patrick’s throat, and Art nearly comes then and there.

His grip on Patrick’s hair doesn’t loosen, and Patrick must think he’s trying to get him to stop — that he’s giving him a warning, maybe. That wasn’t Art’s intent, but after that … fuck, maybe it should be.

Patrick takes it at his cue to move away from Art’s dick, though, and Art almost whines again. But then Patrick is sliding up his body, stretching out along the line of him. They’re touching everywhere, flush together in every way that counts. Patrick’s thigh wedges itself between Art’s, and his knee presses up into his balls. The pressure is overwhelming, as is the sudden flood of friction as Patrick rolls his hips, ruts down against Art’s thigh like a fucking dog .

He starts out slow. A gentle rocking that drives Art mad as soon as it begins. Every thrust sends sparks flying through his gut.

Patrick’s nose knocks into Art’s as he finds his mouth again. The kiss is messy, distracted but still determined, and as he takes over Art’s lips and teeth and tongue, all of Art’s senses become overwhelmed with PatrickPatrickPatrick . The smell of his soap, still clinging to his skin underneath the pool water. The familiar taste of his cigarettes, heavy on his tongue. The feel of his body, pressing into Art, his lips, his hands, his cock. The sight of the bridge of his nose, the corner of his eyebrow, the arch of his cheekbone, in little flashes as Art’s eyes flutter. The sound of his grunts, his pitched uh uh uh ’s as he picks up the pace.

Driving his hips faster, harder, each grind of his thigh against Art’s crotch deliberate. Purposeful . Pushing Art closer and closer. Like he wants him to get there first.

And it’s working, too. Art’s hips move on their own accord, jerking up to meet each of Patrick’s own thrusts. He chases the rising ecstasy, feels the swell of it, building up and building up until, suddenly, it crests and all at once crashes over him.

Art scrabbles at Patrick’s back, biting his lips in what can’t even be constituted as a kiss anymore, gasping and groaning as he rides the waves of pleasure coursing through him.

It should be embarrassing, coming in his pants like he’s sixteen again. But Patrick’s mouthing at his cheek, nipping at his ear, whispering, “You’re so hot. That was so hot,” and Art can’t find the shame anywhere.

Patrick kisses him through the comedown, honeyed and unhurried. He’s still hard; Art can feel the weight of him against his thigh, can feel the way his dick weeps, but Patrick doesn’t pursue his own end. 

He’s got other plans. Plans he makes perfectly clear as he slinks down Art’s body, fitting himself between his legs once more. His fingers creep towards the waistband of Art’s briefs, slipping beneath the fabric, and it’s only now, once he’s made a mess of them, that Patrick tugs them down, completely off. He tosses them over his shoulder. 

Art’s dick springs free, twitches at the sudden rush of cool air against overheated skin. He’s half-hard, though softening, with his release sticky against the tip, dripping down the side, smeared into his groin. Patrick stares at it with wonder in his eyes.

His big hand curls around the base, and Art almost chokes on his inhale, sharp and hissing as twin pangs of pleasure and pain shoot up his spine. Patrick chuckles, a rich sound from somewhere deep in his chest, and Art kind of wants to kick him. 

Instead, his legs close around Patrick, heels digging into the dimples of his back, pressing him even closer — he doesn’t want him to fucking stop. 

Patrick keeps his grip loose, but he drags his palm up, a slow, drawn out arc that makes Art shiver. He strokes him a few times, then sweeps his thumb over the head, through the wet mess gathered there. 

A whine slips past Art’s lips, his body going taught, strung like a livewire as the rough pad of Patrick’s finger sends sparks of pleasured pain through the line of him. Oversensitive and hyper-aware of every little touch, but Art likes the edge of hurt it brings.

But just as soon as Patrick’s touching him, his hand disappears.

Art opens his eyes — hadn’t even realized they’d fallen shut — just in time to watch Patrick sit back on his haunches and lift his palm up to lick a fat stripe over it, cleaning it of Art’s come. He makes a show of it, sucking on each finger then letting it sit against his tongue for Art to see before sealing his lips with a smirk and swallowing.

Art’s legs squeeze around Patrick, and he sits up a little, hands grappling towards Patrick, grabbing at whatever part of him he can reach until Patrick gets the hint.

In the next second, Patrick gets him flat on his back, fingers of both hands laced together and pinned up by Art’s head. He leans down, traces his tongue over Art’s lips before parting them with a long, languid kiss that leaves Art squirming beneath him and tingling down to his toes. 

Art can taste himself on Patrick’s tongue. It’s a heady fucking thing.

When Patrick pulls back, he moves his mouth to Art’s jaw, nipping lightly at the hinge before tipping his chin up to bring his lips to the shell of Art’s ear. He ghosts them down the curve of it then bites down gently on the lobe. 

“Have you done this before?” He asks hotly.

Patrick can’t see, but Art grins. Delights in the fact that he knows exactly how Patrick is going to react when he tells him, “I have.”

It’s a surprise, to Patrick, just like Art knew it would be. His head lifts, the hickey he was laving over abandoned, and his hand flies up to steady Art’s jaw, to turn his head so their eyes can meet.

Art lets his smirk grow. “Tashi wanted to try it,” he says. Then he leans up to whisper into Patrick’s ear, “ I wanted to try it.”

“Fuck, Art ,” Patrick groans, burying his face into Art’s neck. 

Because he was born to egg Patrick on, Art skates the tips of his fingers down Patrick’s bare spine, eliciting a shiver, and he says, “I thought about you every time we did it like that.” 

Patrick groans again.

“Fuck,” he mumbles again, but when he lifts his head, there is a newfound determination in his eyes. “Okay, stay here,” he instructs, and the bed quakes as he throws himself from it, shooting across the room with haste.

It’s a little jarring, going from having Patrick overwhelming Art’s, well, everything to — this . Space, air, elbow room. Though Art’s chest pangs at the loss of Patirck’s body against his, his roaming hands, his all-encompassing mouth, he is also grateful for the brief reprieve. This moment to catch his breath. To reset before Hurricane Patrick devastates him again.

Art rises to his elbows, propping himself up to watch as Patrick drops down beside his duffel bag to rifle through it. He tosses out socks and pajama bottoms and another pair of shoes, muttering under his breath as he searches for his treasure. A zipper jerks open, then closed. Another zipper. Then— 

‘Hah!” Patrick cries out triumphantly, and he tosses a grin over his shoulder at Art. 

Then the bag’s dumped aside and Patrick’s on his feet. He’s back at the bed in a split second, diving onto the mattress with enough vigor that Art bounces with it. Patrick steadies himself against Art’s knee, then holds up his spoils for Art to see — a travel sized bottle of KY and a strip of three gold-foil wrapped condoms.

Ambitious , Art thinks. But it is a challenge he’d definitely be up for.

A bolt of excitement rushes through Art, anticipation thrumming beneath his skin. His heart beats harder in his chest, and his dick gives a feeble twitch against his stomach — pointed interest stirring it to life again.

Kneeling at the foot of the bed, Patrick skates his hands up the sides of Art’s legs before planting his palms firmly against the mattress on either side of Art’s waist. 

Art’s abdomen jumps. His breath stutters.

Patrick bends over him then, dipping down to plant a kiss just above his belly button. Traveling upwards, he trellises a climbing vine of kisses towards Art’s chest, mouth blooming when he reaches a nipple. He brushes his lips across the nub, makes Art shake when he grazes his teeth over it, too.

He laps at Art’s collarbone, tonguing the hollow of his throat. When he’s finally hovering over Art’s face again, he kisses him full on the mouth. It’s a short kiss, but still toe-curling, in the way that all of Patrick’s kisses have been. There’s a sweeter edge to it, though, something plummy and affectionate.

When he breaks it a moment later, Patrick slinks back down Art’s body, settling between his legs again. He continues with the gentle stream of attention, sucking more bruises into the meat of Art’s thighs, lapping at the delicate skin, kissing him so tenderly there Art’s legs can’t help but fall further apart for him. He keeps it up until Art is so relaxed, so distracted that he misses the snick of the lube as Patrick uncaps the bottle and coats his fingers.

Patrick touches the tip of the first slick finger to Art’s taint, and Art moans his surprise. The sound stretches out as Patrick’s finger trails down, traces the tight ring of his rim. Presses against the edge, teasing. Dips in, just a little.

Art exhales a shaky breath, head falling back into the pillows and eyes fluttering. Only, he doesn’t want to miss a single second of this, so he forces his eyes open, cranes his neck. 

The sight of Patrick between his legs, looking so concentrated, is something else. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth dropped open, his eyes transfixed. But then they flicker up, catching Art’s, and concentration turns to determination, with a hint of something roguish , and its matching smirk blooms across his face. He holds Art’s gaze as he leans closer, purses his lips, then spits . Lets it drip down, slow and steady, right onto his hole. His lips glisten, a gossamer string connecting them to Art.

“ Fuck ,” Art whines — exactly the encouragement Patrick needs to finally finally press his finger past the ring of muscle, to sink it in up to the knuckle.

The slight burn lasts for a couple seconds before it twinges into something better, something good , and Art keens, high-pitched and breathy.

Patrick takes his time with it, opening Art up, and Art is half-convinced he’s doing it on purpose. Trying to get Art off again, with his fingers and his words — that steady stream of praise uttered low, dirty — to turn him into a begging mess before finally giving him what he really wants. 

And the thing is — Art could come again. He absolutely could. From nothing but the feel of Patrick’s dexterous hands, his rough fingers stretching him open, thrusting deep, rubbing at that sensitive spot that makes him see stars. Taking him completely apart. He’d already started filling back up by the time he’d gotten used to the first finger, and now, split on three, his dick strains against his stomach, angry red and leaking. 

But Art doesn’t want to come like this; he wants to do it with Patrick inside of him.

And because of that, surely to Patrick’s delight, he is not above begging.

“Patrick,” Art pants, “Patrick, fuck, please . Come on, come on .” He squeezes his legs around Patrick’s torso, urging him on. “I’m ready. Please, please .”

“So fucking eager for it,” Patrick breathes around a chuckle, as predicted taking great pleasure in seeing Art like this. Desperate, impatient, needy — all for him.

Art grits his teeth and digs his heels into Patrick’s back harder, hard enough to hurt. “Waited thirteen years to have you like this. Think I’m allowed to be, don’t you?”

It takes a moment for the admission to sink in, the weight of it, the significance. But when it does, it’s Patrick who’s the eager one now. Desperate, impatient, needy — all for Art. “Shit,” he growls, and he doesn’t waste another second, pulling his fingers from Art. He wipes them against the sheet and grapples for the condom.  “All this time? Art. You can’t just say that,” Patrick huffs.

“Can’t I?” Art asks, sitting up. He plucks the condom from Patrick’s slippery hands to help him tear it open. “It’s true.”

“Fuck,” Patrick curses, both in response to Art’s honesty and to the way he curls his palm around Patrick’s dick, giving it a few strokes that nearly buckle his kness. 

Art barely gets the condom rolled on all the way before Patrick’s knocking his hands out of the way and lining himself up. “You’re unbelievable,” he exhales and pushes into Art with a punched out groan.

And jesus. Jesus . 

Patrick is big. Art’s always known that — kind of hard not to, sharing a bedroom and a bathroom and a locker room for six years — but jesus christ. It’s one thing to see it and another entirely to feel it. Filling him up, stuffing him to the brim. So deep Art swears he can feel him in his guts . Jesus.

He’s shaking, and so is Patrick as he bottoms out, hips flush against Art’s ass. 

“Oh, fuck, Art, fuck fuck fuck,” Patrick gasps, and Art only catches a glimpse of the utter rapture painted across his face before Patrick drops his forehead against Art’s collarbone. “Jesus, you’re so tight.”

He doesn’t move right away — whether that’s to give Art time to adjust or to keep himself from blowing his load before he can even really get started, Art doesn’t know. All he does know is that he needs Patrick to do something . Before he loses his goddamn mind.

“Move,” Art demands, throwing his arms around Patrick’s neck. “Goddammit, I can take it, move ,” he urges. Slides his hand into Patrick’s hair and tangles his fingers into the curls. Gets a firm grip around them and uses it to yank his head up. Looks Patrick directly in the eyes when he tells him, so seriously, “If you don’t fuck me right now I think I’ll die.”

Patrick’s face contorts, and a half-moan, half-laugh spills from his parted lips. Art feels it reverberate through his whole body. 

“Fucking drama queen,” Patrick bites, but then his hips shift back, cock slipping out of Art a couple of inches, only to — suddenly, roughly — slam forward again. Sinking back in, hard. Deep .

He doesn’t hold back after that, practically folding Art in half as he gives him exactly what he asked for. 

Patrick fucks the way he plays tennis — cocksure and confident. Unrelenting . Like he doesn’t just think he’s the best, he knows it. 

And he is, god , he is. Every snap of his hips has Art crying out, fingernails leaving crescent moons in the skin of Patrick’s shoulders. 

It’s intense, impassioned, just like the last set of their match, and Art comes alive , once again, at Patrick’s mercy.

“Patrick,” Art whines. “Fuck, what the fuck, jesus christ, what the fuck,” he chants, losing himself in it a little.

Patrick laughs, breathless. “I know, I’m good,” he taunts, and levels a thrust that sends Art’s back skidding up the mattress. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Art groans, but he hangs on tighter, grinds his hips down to keep himself anchored to Patrick.

“You feel so good,” Patrick says, not shutting the fuck up. “Fuck, wanna stay like this forever. Buried inside you. Fuckin’— fused together. Fuck .” He kisses Art then, wet and uncoordinated, all tongue and teeth.

Art can barely breathe through it all, can only hope to steal the oxygen he needs right from Patrick’s lungs.

His dick is trapped by their bodies, sticky and wet and dragging between them with each thrust. He’s going to come — can feel his orgasm building, fast and desperate, igniting at the base of his spine. Licking flames into his belly. Spreading through his limbs like a rampant forest fire.

“I’m close,” Art manages to rasp out. Then another warning: “Don’t fucking stop.” 

He doesn’t want to be — doesn’t want this to end, but there is nothing he can do to stave it off. Not when Patrick doubles down and snaps his hips harder. Not when Patrick hisses a litany of filth into Art’s ear, egging him on. Not when Patrick snakes a hand between them to wrap around Art’s dick. 

All it takes is the one touch and it hits him. Slams into Art like a brick fucking wall. Takes hold of his body — blurs his vision, steals his breath, curls his toes. 

He comes harder than he’s ever come before.

“That’s it, that’s it, baby,” Patrick murmurs sweetly into Art’s ear as he shakes apart in his arms. He doesn’t stop, just like Art asked, fucking him through it, chasing his own orgasm.

Art’s able to gather just enough of his wits in the aftermath to skate his hands down Patrick’s back, squeezing his ribs, his hips, his ass before sliding a thumb between, pressing the pad of it to Patrick’s rim.

The tip of his fingernail catches — dry. Patrick’s hips stutter, his breath hitches, and he comes. His muscles clench, so tight that his leg spasms, and he chokes out a sob of Art’s name into his neck. 

Art pulls his finger back, wraps his arms around Patrick, holds him as he trembles, the waves of his orgasm washing over him in tsunami ripples.

Eventually Patrick’s body goes lax against Art’s, and he exhales heavily against his collar. Art can feel Patrick softening inside of him, and he has to shove at his chest a little to get him to finally pull out. 

“Jesus christ,” Patrick breathes, rolling off of Art. He flops onto his back, against the pillows, lets his head loll towards Art. A loopy smile pulls at his lips. “Jesus christ.”

Art can only laugh, breathless, boneless, totally dazed as he meets Patrick’s eyes. “ Yeah .” 

Art has always been a stomach sleeper, and that’s no different here, lying with Patrick in the afterglow. He’s sprawled half-atop Patrick, chests pressed together and legs tangled below. Art’s head is pillowed against the juncture where shoulder meets torso, and his left arm is strewn across Patrick’s ribcage, bent at the elbow so he can trace aimless shapes into the hair smattering his chest. 

Patrick doesn’t seem to mind being a human pillow. In fact, he must love it. Both of his arms curl around Art’s body, keeping him there, holding him close. His left hand brushes softly through Art’s hair, while the fingertips of his right trail lightly up and down Art’s back, soothing, hypnotic. 

Already boneless, the ministrations just melt Art further. He never wants to leave this bed.

The sheets are pulled haphazardly up, really only enough to cover Art’s modesty, and, well, not much of Patrick’s — not that either of them care much about being modest around one another.

But it’s a warm, comfortable weight over Art’s legs, and with every passing second Art sinks further into it. His eyes flutter as he floats in that hazy space between awake and asleep.

“Hey,” Patrick says suddenly, anchoring Art back to his body. He shakes his shoulder to jostle Art awake. 

Resisting a groan at the peace being disturbed, Art snuffles out a sigh and tips his chin up. “Hm?” He acknowledges, if only to stop the earthquake beneath him.

“You never finished earlier,” Patrick says, and Art immediately snorts. He almost cracks the joke that he finished twice actually, thank you very much, but Patrick doesn’t give him the chance, “Outside, I mean,” he says. “You never finished telling me about your life.”

“Oh,” Art says. Then, “I guess I got a little distracted.” His smile starts in the left corner and stretches slowly across the rest of his mouth.

Patrick’s laugh rumbles through his chest, and Art feels it rumble through him too. “Little?” Patrick asks.

Art does let his groan loose this time, reaching up blindly to push at Patrick’s face. 

Patrick swats at his hand, and Art flaps it back, and it turns, briefly, into a tussle, as it so often does between them.

It’s full of laughter and grabass and Art kicks Patrick in the shin before Patrick gets the upper hand and pins Art down. His eyes sparkle with mirth and something softer that pokes Art’s heart until it flops in his chest. Patrick dips down to steal a quick kiss — a chaste brush of lips — then releases Art and rolls off of him. He doesn’t go far, his arm still pressed against Art’s from shoulder to elbow, but Art moves with him, a planet in Patrick’s orbit. 

Lying on his side now, he tucks an arm under his head, and a few inches away, Patrick mirrors him. Two parentheses closed around the world’s smallest sentence.

“You made it up to Lily then stopped,” Patrick supplies, picking up the thread of conversation again.

“Right,” Art says. He bites at the inside of his cheek, then gives a small shrug. “I mean, all that’s left after that is all the boring tennis stuff.” 

Patrick laughs. “The boring tennis stuff, right,” he drawls. “Because six fucking slams is boring . Because being one major tournament win away from a career fucking slam is boring. Because being one of the top ranked players in the fucking world is boring. Right .” He reaches a hand over to shove Art in the bicep. “Don’t be fucking modest, man.”

He’s grinning, this wide, brimming thing that reminds Art too much of Patrick at seventeen, young and carefree and excited. Like the whole world was his oyster — was theirs .

Art rolls his eyes. Tugs at Patrick’s chest hair, delighting in the little yelp it pulls from him. “See, you already know it,” he says, smoothing his hand over Patrick’s chest. “Boring.”

When Patrick rolls his eyes in mocking response, Art flattens his palm over Patrick’s whole face again, pushing it away. 

Patrick laughs, fingers coming up to circle Art’s wrist and pry him off. He only succeeds in tugging Art’s hand from his face, grip slackening as Art’s palm trails down his neck instead. He leaves it there, and Patrick lets him. His thumb drifts up to stroke Patrick’s chin.

“Come on,” Art urges. “Your turn. What has the great Patrick Zweig done with all that time?”

Something bittersweet toys at the corner of Patrick’s mouth. He turns, flat on his back now, and his eyes flicker away too. “As if you don’t already know,” he parrots, but it’s half-hearted.

Art exhales silently, heavily. “I really don’t,” he says softly, and his chest aches with it. He hates how fucking true it is. 

“Who’s fault is that?” Patrick snaps automatically.

Art winces.

So does Patrick. His mouth twists. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” He sighs. “I’m not trying to ruin—” he gestures between the two of them, at whatever… this is, “— this. I swear. It’s been thirteen years,” he says, aiming for casual now, “I’m over it.” 

Except it’s obvious he’s not. Art can see it in the rigidity of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. In the hurt he doesn’t want Art to see in his eyes.

Art nods. Purses his lips. It’s ugly, but it is their history. “We can— we can talk about it,” he offers. Then, “We should talk about it.” 

“Do we have to?” Patrick asks, tipping his head Art’s way. 

Art’s eyes flicker between Patrick’s. 

He feels it too, that hurt. It’s stuck with him too. But this is a conversation that can wait. They don’t need to hash it out right here, right now. Not when this thing between them, whatever it is, is so fragile. So new . They’ve held onto their anger and their upset and their grief for so long, what’s a little bit longer?

“No,” Art decides. “We don’t have to.” 

Patrick finally meets Art’s eyes, and he smiles gratefully. He heaves himself over, curling the rest of his body towards Art’s. “You’re here now, aren’t you?” He says, softer.

“I am,” Art says, shuffling closer. “And so are you.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says.

For now, that’s as good a place to start as any.

“Now quit avoiding the question,” Art says. “You’re here — how did you get here?” 

“My life hasn’t been as exciting as yours,” Patrick tells him with a self-deprecating laugh. Another non-answer.

“It’s not a competition,” Art points out. 

“Isn’t it?” Patrick asks, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, competition is all I know. I didn’t go to college, remember?”

“No, you didn’t,” Art says, “but you kickstarted your tennis career way before I did. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

Patrick snorts. “What good did that do?” He asks, shaking his head. “Two hundred and seventy-first in the world, that’s where it got me. How lame is that?” He laughs again.

“Hey, two hundred and seventy-first out of everyone in the world ,” Art emphasizes. “There’s a lot of fucking people in the world, man.”

The corner of Patrick’s mouth wavers, like he’s trying not to smile, but his face isn’t quite getting the memo. “Not everyone in the world plays tennis, Art.”

Art waves a hand. “So what? There’s still a lot of people who do . And you’re the two hundred and seventy-first best of them. That’s pretty great.”

Patrick’s lips are still pinched, but the craters in his cheeks grow deeper with each passing second until, finally, the effort fails and the smile cracks out over Patrick’s face. It’s small, but it’s fond, and Art can practically feel that radiating from it.

Patrick shakes his head. “I see you’re just as annoyingly optimistic as you’ve always been,” he comments.

Art laughs. Shrugs helplessly. What can you do?

“I missed that,” Patrick says, and it steals the breath from Art’s lungs. Flays him wide open, too.

Patrick’s always been so open about saying shit like that. For someone so constipated about his feelings, he’s never had any issues being honest .

Maybe it’s Art’s turn to be honest. 

“I missed you,” he says.

Patrick exhales through his nose, and his lips wobble, quirking up at the corners. An inverted mirror of that sad, sad thing that painted his face yesterday in the sauna. His eyes shine a little, earnestly relieved. “That’s nice to hear,” Patrick says, and Art knows he’s being genuine. That he really means it.

“Sometimes I wondered if you did,” Patrick confesses, and it’s dancing close to the thing they just agreed not to discuss yet, but Art doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t tell him to back off. The feeling is very much mutual, and it’s cathartic to hear. “Sometimes,” Patrick continues after a pause, “I wonder what if would have been like if—” he cuts himself off. Smiles distantly at the ceiling and shakes his head.

Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if we hadn’t lost touch.

Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if we kept playing together.

Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if we never met Tashi.

Patrick doesn’t actually voice any of it, but he doesn’t have to. Art’s been asking himself the same questions. Imaging the same infinite parallel universes that stem from just one tiny different decision.

Well, except for maybe the last one. He doesn’t regret meeting Tashi. How could he when she gave him this life? An incredible career, a beautiful daughter, all of her love. Because she does love him, Art knows that too. She’s got a different way of showing him, a different way of telling him, but he sees it. He hears it. And he loves her too. He always will.

It’s true that things might have gone differently for him and Patrick if they’d never met Tashi. But who’s to say they wouldn’t have ended up exactly where they are now anyway? Estranged. Bitter. Heartbroken. It could have been a number of other things that did them in. And in those universes, without Tashi, they might not have found their way back to each other.

She is just as entwined in their story as they are. 

“Anyway,” Patrick says, clearing his throat, and the air with it, “you wanna know how my life has been? Take a look around.” He gestures broadly at the room, and the rest of the less than satisfactory motel beyond. “Shitty hotel rooms — if I’m lucky — otherwise I’m sleeping in my car. Winning a Challenger just to spend all the prize money getting to the next one. Barely rising in the ranks at all no matter how many I do win.” He laughs then. “Actually, losing to you today probably just dropped me another couple places, so thanks,” he jokes.

Art scoffs and he doesn’t bother masking his grin as he pushes Patrick back against the pillow and crowds in, propping himself up on his chest. He leans over Patrick and enunciates, “Bullshit. I’m already way ahead of you.”

Patrick crows out a laugh. “Way to rub it in.”

“I’ll show you rubbing it in,” Art growls playfully, and he rolls his hips down.

Patrick’s head tips back with a breathy laugh, exposing the column of his neck.

Art pounces, latching his lips to the hollow of his throat, the underside of his jaw. He leaves open-mouthed kisses in his wake, grazing teeth and nipping gently every so often, trailing up to the sensitive spot beneath Patrick’s ear, then over the apple of his cheek, the side of his nose, the corner of his lips, and finally, the full of his mouth. 

He takes his time with it, cradling Patrick’s face to keep him still.

Patrick kisses back in kind, matching Art’s lazy pace. Art’s tongue traces the swell of Patrick’s lower lip, and he drops it open for Art — and to talk. 

“You know,” he says mid-kiss. Lets the opener dangle long enough to suck on Art’s tongue a little. Getting him good and distracted before he drops, “I asked her to coach me.”

Art’s mouth freezes. He pulls back. His hand still cups Patrick’s cheek as he blinks down at him. “What?”

“You heard me,” Patrick says. He tries to catch Art’s lips again, but Art juts his chin up, just out of reach. Patrick pouts. “Before our final,” he adds.

A laugh rumbles up from Art’s chest. “And you’re still alive?”

Patrick snorts. “If looks could kill…” he reminisces.

Art can almost picture it, the look on Tashi’s face after that bomb. The curl of her lip, the twitch of her eye. A twisted part of him wishes he was there to see how it played out. He can only imagine the ways Patrick’s ass was handed to him.

“What did she say?” He asks.

“She slapped me,” Patrick answers. Proudly, too. 

Art laughs again, hearty. It isn’t wholly undeserved, he thinks, and as far as Tashi’s concerned, a slap is mild . But that isn’t what gets him the most. “That isn’t a no,” Art points out. 

The grin that spans Patrick’s face is wolfish, a hungry display of all his teeth. “I know,” he says, pleased. He tilts his head then, contemplative. “You think she’ll actually say yes though?”

Before Art can answer, a phone starts to ring. It must be his, he doesn’t remember Patrick taking his out of the car. Or complaining about it getting soaked after he fell into the pool — and he would have complained. Loudly.

With a sigh, Art starts to kick the tangle of blankets from his legs. He tries to roll off of Patrick too, but Patrick’s arms wrap around him from behind, trapping him against his chest.

“Patrick—”

“Let it ring,” Patrick husks into his ear. Bites at the lobe.

“You know I can’t,” Art replies, tempted as he is though. “I gotta get that.”

Patrick ignores him and kisses at Art’s neck. His tongue is warm against the skin, wet, and Art tingles under its touch.

“Come on, you horny freak,” Art protests, throwing a half-hearted elbow into Patrick’s ribs. “Let me go.” The command falls flat, undermined by Art’s lack of fight to escape and his laughter. 

“You say that like you weren’t just all over me two seconds ago,” Patrick accuses, unconvinced. “I got the marks from your fangs to prove it.” 

Art flushes. He doesn’t acknowledge his penchant for biting — one that Patrick didn’t seem to be complaining about two seconds ago either — instead wriggling in Patrick’s arms. “Before it stops ringing,” he presses. 

“Isn’t that the goal?” 

“ Patrick .”

With an overdramatic sigh, Patrick finally relents and releases Art from his grip.

“This won’t be long,” Art promises, sliding out of bed.

“Hate to see him go, love to watch him leave,” Patrick croons longingly, tucking his arms beneath his head as he stretches out in Art’s absence. 

Art huffs a laugh and tosses an amused glance over his shoulder, which only grows when he catches Patrick staring unabashedly at his ass.

Resisting the thing inside of him that’s screaming at him to turn around and just climb back into bed with Patrick, phone call be damned, Art focuses on following the sound of his ringtone. He finds his shorts in the small heap of their clothes, under Patrick’s (still damp) shorts and his own underwear. He snags the underwear from the pile, ignoring the loud boo Patrick throws his way, and he tugs them back on one-handed while he fishes his phone out of his pocket with the other.

When he finds it, Tashi’s name flashes back at him.

Speak of the devil and she will appear , he thinks amusedly. 

“Hey,” he says to Patrick as he straightens up and turns. He starts his retreat back towards the bed, holding out the phone so Patrick can see the screen. “You wanna try asking her again?” He teases.

Patrick grimaces, and Art laughs.

He hits answer and holds the phone up to his ear. “Hey, baby,” he greets, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

Tashi doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Are you still with him?” She asks. Curious, though, not accusatory. Not upset. 

“Yeah,” Art answers, casting Patrick a quick glance over his shoulder.

It’s the wrong move. Patrick perks up, keying into the fact that they’re talking about him. He shoves the sheets away and crawls down the length of the bed to join Art at the end. When he reaches his side, he drapes himself over Art’s back, hooking his arms around his middle and his chin over Art’s shoulder.

Art cranes his neck to give Patrick a flat look and switches the phone to his other ear, further from Patrick’s burning ears.

Patrick huffs, but he doesn’t move. 

“Did you do what you needed to do?” Tashi asks in his ear. 

Art’s mouth twitches into a private smile, flashes of the last hour bursting behind his eyes. “I did— we did,” he tells her, and he’s sure she can hear his contentment bleeding into his words. 

“Good,” Tashi says, and she, too, sounds genuinely pleased. Like she’s happy that Art’s happy. “Good,” she repeats. “Now, come home.” 

It’s a demand as much as it’s a request, equal parts hard and soft. All Tashi.

It doesn’t come as a surprise when a second later, she adds, “And bring him with you.”

Art’s heart jumps in his chest, and a thrill runs through him — that this isn’t the end, that he doesn’t need to walk away, that he doesn’t need to choose .

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises, then softer, “I love you.”

“I know,” Tashi answers, just as soft.

The line clicks as Tashi disconnects. 

Patrick’s arms loosen around Art’s waist. He doesn’t let go completely, but he shifts back, putting a few uncharacteristic inches between them. 

“You’re leaving me again?”

It’s said in jest, Patrick wearing the matching lighthearted pout, but it’s impossible to miss the undercurrent of genuine upset so close to the surface.

“Tashi wants me back,” Art replies, biting the inside of his cheek.

Patrick does let go now, dropping from his knees to sit fully on the bed behind Art. “Tashi wants,” he says, “right. I forgot — she says jump, you say how high. She calls, you come running.”

Art exhales a silent laugh. Rolls his eyes at Patrick’s petulance. Without rising to the bait, Art stands from the bed to cross the room again and start collecting the rest of his clothes.

He steps into his shorts and pulls his shirt back on, straightening the hem before he bends back down to gather up Patrick’s clothes too — still wet, unfortunately. Art makes a face. Tashi won’t like that. Patrick won’t either. 

He’s wondering if Patrick might have a spare shirt somewhere in the mess of his car when he remembers Patrick’s duffel bag. Duh . There’s gotta be something clean— semi-clean— not wet in there for him to wear instead. 

Art balls up the wet clothes and tucks them under his arm, walking over to where the bag is slumped in the corner. He picks it up and drops it on the desk, tugging the zipper open. 

“What are you doing?” Patrick asks, and Art hears the mattress springs protest as he shifts atop it.

Art finds a pair of red shorts and snags the first t-shirt he comes across, which— oh. It’s white, with the words “Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy” in bright blue across the chest. There’s a hole in the collar, the exact size and shape of a pinkie finger — just like the one Art lost all those years ago.

It is the one you lost , his brain shouts at him a second later. Except, not lost, just— stolen. Oh .

It brings a watery smile to Art’s face, and he bites his lip to keep it from growing any bigger. Clearing his throat, he then schools his face into something less sappy and turns back towards Patrick. He tangles the shirt and shorts together and launches the wad of clothes at Patrick.

Unprepared, it smacks him square in the chest before falling to his lap.

“Get dressed,” Art instructs.

“What?” Patrick exhales, affronted. “Why do I have to get dressed? This is my hotel room, remember? I’m not leaving.”

Art rolls his eyes again and sticks a hand on his hip. “Public nudity is a crime, Patrick, and I’d rather not have to bail your ass out of jail tonight — that would kind of put a damper on things.” Art wags a finger around the room. “Get your shit, too.”

Confusion clouds Patrick’s eyes and scrunches his brows together. Art resists the urge to walk over and smooth out his frown lines. 

“My shit? Am I being robbed? Are you robbing me?” 

Art snorts so hard it hurts. “Patrick, what the fuck,” he says.

Patrick throws his hands up. “What the fuck else am I supposed to think?”

“That maybe you have somewhere else you need to be,” Art replies cryptically. He can’t help it — fucking with Patrick has always been fun for him. And it’s been a while since he’s gotten the chance to. He missed it.

Patrick crosses his arms over his chest. Challenging. “And where, exactly, is that?”

Art purses his lips. Basks in Patrick’s demand, in the hardened look on his face — the one that can’t quite hide his curiosity. His intrigue .

As cute as the pout of Patrick’s lips are, though, Art is having trouble hiding his excitement. 

He finally decides to cut Patrick some slack.

In three long strides, he’s back at the edge of the bed, standing right in front of Patrick, where he sits now, feet planted on the floor. His legs are spread, and Art steps into the space between them like it was meant for him. Patrick’s back straightens, chin tipping up to pin his narrowed glare onto Art — who just laughs softly. 

Art presses in close and reaches out to cup Patrick’s face between his hands. He uses this rare moment of height advantage to peer down into his eyes, those endless pools of clear blue. “We,” Art starts, stroking his thumbs over Patrick’s cheekbones, “are going home.”

“Home?” Patrick repeats, all traces of irritation slipping away as a naked wonder takes its place. Like he can’t quite believe it; like it might be too good to be true.

Only it’s not . It is good and it is true and it’s happening. It is so happening.

Art lets the smile finally curve his mouth wide, crinkle his eyes and scrunch up his nose. “Yeah. Home .”

He holds out a hand for Patrick.

Patrick takes it.