Chapter Text
“Are you driving?”
Tashi’s voice had risen to a high whine. Patrick struggled to inch into the turn lane while simultaneously drinking from an old coffee cup and keeping his Blackberry stuck to his ear.
“No.”
“Don’t you lie to me, Zweig.”
“Alright, I’m getting onto the freeway.”
“Asshole.”
“Bitch.”
Patrick cranked the Honda into a hard right and merged in a burst of speed. He had never been a genius at math, but he figured he needed at least one hand to man the wheel. That meant sacrificing his coffee or Tashi.
“Hey Tash,” he said, pseudo-apologetically, “I gotta go.”
“Fuck you, you gotta go,” Tashi sniped, “You’re not even paying attention. Get off the phone if you’re driving.”
“You called me !”
“God, you’re so unbelievably stupid sometimes-”
“Tash.”
“It’s a mystery how you get by-”
“Tash.”
“This was a mistake.”
“Tashi!”
“What?”
“What exactly did he say to you?”
Patrick hadn’t been expecting Tashi to call. Then again, whatever he expected Tashi to do usually never came to pass. She was a firework; too high in the sky to reach, but bright enough to see from anywhere in the world. Brilliant. Fiery. A thousand things at once. Only graces you on special occasions. Or when she feels like it.
Tonight, apparently, she felt like it.
“He called to wish me good luck tomorrow.”
“That’s right,” Patrick tsked , “Shouldn’t you be in bed by now, baby?”
“No,” Tashi said, “You don’t get to call me that.”
“Force of habit.”
“My ass.”
“I do love your ass…”
“Patrick!”
“I’m listening!”
“Are you on your way or not?”
Her last words were softer, cheated by her sincerity. Patrick could almost imagine her pulling at the cord of her landline in her dorm room, snuggled cross-legged on her comforter, free hand nervously touching the end of her braid. She’d be in a tank top, it was still hot in Cali…maybe those cute little gray boyshorts she bought last time he visited. Hair stuck to the back of her neck with sweat. Toenails painted red for the match. No bra…
“Hey, what are you wearing right now?”
Tashi scoffed loudly into the receiver.
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“Sick fuck.”
“Yeah, I’m on my way,” Patrick laughed, mostly to himself, “I took your advice and called the bank. Charges came up in Oakland.”
Tashi needled, “Where?”
“Convenience store,” he shrugged, “And a vending machine in a hotel.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He’s camping out,” Patrick explained, “I think I know why.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, I’ve really gotta focus on the road now.”
“You actually left the tour group?”
“Yup. I’ll be there before dawn.”
“Okay.”
Patrick thought it might be the end of her thoughts, but it wasn’t.
“You’ll-”
“I’ll call,” he promised, “I’ll even put him on the phone, if you’d like that.”
“That’s considerate,” she deadpanned. Though she really meant; yeah, I’d like that.
“Miss you, Tashi.”
“Make yourself useful, Patrick.”
She hung up. He always let her hang up first. He would stay on the line forever if she didn’t.
Patrick eyed the gas gauge on the dashboard. He’d make it to Oakland, with any luck.
Eight dollars, the bank representative had said, eight dollars off an Oakland highway. Patrick knew exactly what eight dollars even at a gas station 7-11 purchased; a red Gatorade, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a pack of Cadence cigarettes.
Hopefully, Art had saved him at least one.
…
Patrick knocked once on the door of Art’s hotel room.
Twice.
Three times.
“...Patrick?”
Art opened the door as far as it would go, which was only a few inches before it was stopped by the deadbolt. The room was dark, dappled by the brightness of the television screen and the blue night lights on the floor. Patrick couldn’t have been paying less attention to any of that. His eyes were focused on what little of Art he could see in the technicolor gloom. Tawny hair and red cheekbones and purple under eyes. Clammy and dim. It was like someone had turned down his volume. Dead boy walking.
“Real shithole you’ve got here,” Patrick leaned to get a better look inside.
Art just edged the door closed. He was breathing too hard for Patrick’s comfort.
“How…” he said hoarsely, “How did you find me?”
“How long have you been here?”
“You first.”
“Debit card statement,” Patrick said, “You used the one for our joint account.”
It was a relic from their tennis academy days. Two boys trying to buy post-practice snacks and pay their older classmates for illegal beers quickly found themselves stuck between a rock and a hard place. Patrick’s credit was shit and Art had no credit to speak of, so one night after a tipsy game of midnight tennis played sloppily on the school courts, they’d had the brilliant idea to open a shared debit card they could pool their money into. Most of the deposits came from Art, whose parents were far more generous and, even so, he had a far less difficult time asking them for money anyway. But Patrick’s contributions, though not as frequent, were usually substantial. Birthday cards stuffed with twenties. Strange inheritances from his trust as he got older. And thus they had been set. Milkshakes had been paid for and new court shoes or going out jeans weren’t so out of their reach. They had been living life large, and living it together.
Art probably hadn’t even thought twice about handing it over to the convenience store clerk. It was meant for his exact situation; illicit purchases he didn’t want his parents or his school knowing about.
Art sighed inwardly, “Fuck.”
“Your turn.”
“Two days.”
Two days. It was barely a weekend trip. Not even past the forty eight hours for a police report. But it still made Patrick’s stomach turn to think he had been by himself all that time, caged in a vacant, dank room and stewing in his own misery.
“How’d you know this was my room?” he asked.
Patrick raised an eyebrow, “Carter Zweig?”
There was a tense beat between them before Art let out something like a chuckle. It eased the tension sitting in Patrick’s stomach. It proved he wasn’t doing too badly.
“Just ask me to marry you man,” Patrick chuckled, “Let’s make it official.”
Art’s grip on the door slackened. But he wasn’t going anywhere just yet.
“Does anyone know you’re here?”
“Just Tashi,” Patrick said. Just Tashi. Like she was anything less than everything. Like she was some girl. He quickly added, “She’s worried about you.”
“She shouldn’t be.”
“You know her. No one’s gonna tell her how to feel.”
“No one puts Duncan in a corner.”
Art looked down at his bare feet, at the calluses that perpetually toughened the inside curves of his soles.
“Listen, Art.”
He looked up instantly. Patrick took a deep breath.
“I know why you’re here, so you’re not getting me to leave. I called out of practice. I’ve got fresh clothes and french fries. I’m a free man for the next twenty four hours. And after that, I’m driving you back to Stanford and staying for a few days.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
“No,” Art argued, “I mean…I don’t want you to do that.”
Patrick leaned against the doorframe. Art rubbed the corner of his eye. Sleep or tears, Patrick could only guess.
“You don’t really mean that.”
“You shouldn’t be around me right now,” Art continued.
Patrick folded his arms, “Why? Are you gonna turn into the fucking Wolverine or something?”
“No.”
“Waiting out the full moon?”
“ No , I just…” Art struggled for the words. And then he shut the door in Patrick’s face.
“Art!”
The door swung open, fully this time. And there was Art. All of him.
He gestured to himself obviously.
“You shouldn’t be around me,” Art repeated, an angry set to his brow, “Because this , is disgusting. Okay? It’s gross. I’m sweating through everything I’ve brought, I can’t eat without throwing up, and I’m shaking so badly I can barely dial a phone number. I’m fucking tired and I’m not perfect company, so why can’t you just get the fuck out of here before-”
Patrick shouldered past him before he could finish his sentence. Art slammed the door again, this time with Patrick safely in the room.
“Are you deaf?” Art demanded.
“No,” Patrick threw his duffel bag onto the seat of the easy chair in the corner, “I’m hungry.”
“Get out.”
“Make me.”
“You’re a child,” Art seethed, “You’re a petulant child.”
“Oh yeah?” Patrick stretched out over Art’s messy sheets, “Spell it for me.”
“I can’t believe you.”
“I’m special that way.”
“ Leave. ”
“Go shower,” Patrick said, though not unkindly, “You’re right. You’re nasty.”
“And?”
“And I don’t care,” he assured him, “I told you. I brought you some shit.”
“Patrick-”
“I mean it. Cold shower. Keep it quick though or I’m helping myself to your cheeseburger.”
“I can’t eat.”
“You can try.”
Patrick anticipated another verbal blow. But none came. He showed Art his most optimistic smile.
“Like it or not, we’re riding this out together, baby.”
Art rolled his eyes, opened the bathroom door anyway.
“You do not get to call me that.”
The door was closed and locked before Patrick could retort. A few seconds passed before the shower was turned on as well and Patrick felt a profound sense of victory.
“Force of habit.” He muttered and closed his eyes for a little while.
…
Fifteen minutes later they were perched on a stripped hotel bed, sheets sent to the washing service, the both of them cleaned and laundered, rooting through a fast food bag for the last fries and watching Tashi’s Pepperdine match on the television. Art still seemed worse for wear, but he smelled a lot better and looked a lot less dejected. He’d even taken a couple bites of his burger and laughed at Patrick’s stupid comments about Tashi’s tennis uniform.
Patrick hated to think about the state Art would have been if he hadn’t come to find him, so he tried not to.
“She’s gonna hurt herself sliding like that,” Patrick said, through a mouthful of food.
Art snickered, “You and the goddamn sliding…”
“It’s a real problem in our industry.”
“You can’t let it go.”
“You two will thank me one day.”
“I’m sure we will.”
Tashi slammed an absolute heater past the Pepperdine girl’s reach. It smacked the court squarely within bounds, but the Pepperdine girl immediately raised protest with the umpire. Tashi grimaced on the other side, picking at her racket strings. Patrick could tell her patience was wearing thin. She just wanted to play .
“C’mon Coach,” Art murmured, reading both their minds, “Say something. Shut her down.”
And right on cue, Tashi’s coach came into frame, gesticulating wildly at the umpire. The Pepperdine girl backed down and the match resumed.
Art took a sip from Patrick’s icy cup of Diet Coke, not taking his eyes off the screen. He idly worried the edge of the paper wrapping his burger. Patrick figured it was a good enough time to ask as any;
“What meds do they have you trying out right now?”
Art set aside Patrick’s cup. He rolled his shoulders and leaned back to reach into the bedside table. He emerged with the pack of Cadence and a lighter.
“Anafranil.” He said dully and lit a cigarette.
“And?”
“And it sucks. Thanks for the concern.”
He passed Patrick the cigarette without him having to ask. Patrick glanced up at the ceiling; a disposable shower cap was fit snugly over the smoke detector. Excellent touch.
Patrick took a long drag, his chest heating.
“It won’t suck for much longer, right?”
“Maybe. Who knows.”
Art didn’t sound so sure. No. He was sure, he just wasn’t hopeful.
“And what was the last one?”
“Zoloft,” Art recalled, “It fucked up my balance. I could barely stand up straight, much less hit a ball. I lost all my muscle from training. I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t pay attention. And it still didn’t help with the…”
He waved his hand, as if brushing aside the words from the air.
“Obsessions and compulsions?” Patrick filled in, only half-joking.
“Yeah.”
On screen, Tashi had locked down another set. The camera followed her as she switched sides on the court, not even looking at Little Miss Pepperdine as they passed.
“It got bad,” Art said abruptly, “Again.”
Patrick passed the cigarette.
Getting bad wasn’t so much a temporary state of being for Art as it was a constant reality, drifting in and out of intensity with the years and medication switches. Maybe the symptoms ebbed every once in a while, but they were always present in some way. If he wasn’t tattering his cuticles or chewing endlessly on his bottom lip, he was killing himself after practices trying to get that one perfect shot that would right the universe again. His bedroom went from impeccable to disastrous. He ate until he made himself sick or not at all. More than once during their shared living at school, Art had gone on an extended monologue about how much better he was feeling and that maybe he didn’t need the medications after all.
Patrick never thought it was his place to advise him otherwise. So prescriptions went unfilled, and things got bad . Art stopped talking, stopped having any interest in tennis or teachers or even Tashi. He called Patrick every day for a week and then never again. He became consumed by the littlest things. And he despised himself for it. He hated that he couldn’t just be .
Patrick didn’t know which was worse. Watching and knowing whatever he did would only be a Bandaid…or not watching, and knowing there was no way to reach him. It was never enough, but at least it was something.
Patrick was okay with being something . It was better than being gone, which he seemed to be doing a lot of now that touring had taken over. He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Art- no, really been with him- in the last few months.
It wasn’t fair. To Art, to Tashi, to himself. He had to do better. And hearing Tashi’s panicked voice over the phone, seeing Art at his lowest for the first time in years…it was the push he needed.
He was needed .
Art finished the rest of Patrick’s Coke and dropped the cigarette into the dregs. He straightened his spine and clapped at the television.
“Let’s go Tashi,” he cheered quietly, “Bring it home.”
Patrick was looking forward to doing that for Art.
“Art.”
“Yeah?”
“You know I love you.”
Something flickered across Art’s face- regret, anger, sadness, maybe all three- before it was promptly smoothed over. Patrick watched Art’s throat jump as he swallowed.
“I know,” Art said.
He looked around at the room; at the clean clothes in the closet, the damp towel hanging over the chair, the food and the drinks and the cigarettes. The labor of love Patrick had completed for him, because it wasn’t a labor so much as it was a privilege.
Tashi could call him arrogant and Art could call him stubborn, but neither of them could call him heartless. He took care of the things he loved. Everything else wasn’t worth the time.
Patrick cracked his neck, “You don’t have to say it back or anything-”
“Shut up,” Art said immediately, “Love you too.”
“I figured as much.”
Art shoved at his shoulder, but there wasn’t much force behind it. Patrick wouldn’t have cared even if there was. Art was feeling better and Tashi was looking beautiful and soon enough things would be aces, because the three of them would all be in the same place at the same time.
Tashi landed serve after serve. She really was mesmerizing to watch.
“Shit man,” Patrick breathed, “Look at our girl go.”
“Mhm.” Art nodded. Patrick realized how much he missed watching the morning light as it carded its hands through Art’s hair. It reminded him of early summers on the court and late dusks by the beach, vanilla ice cream and overripe peaches, Tashi’s golden necklace and egg yolks for breakfast. Kisses pressed to his nose and neck and hips. University bedsheets tangled at the footboard. White tennis shoes and blue hotel pools. Pink lip gloss. Sharing shirts.
Art turned up the volume a few clicks. The crowd was screaming Tashi’s name.
“Patrick.”
“Hm?”
“Do you think we could still call Tashi? After her match?”
Yeah. Soon it would be aces.