gigi .ᐟ @museboos - Tumblr Blog

I’M DRUNK, I LOVE YOU.

art donaldson x reader

sfw. angst. unrequited love. confession. pining. ♡

You barely remember whose idea it was. You don‘t even have time to protest. It just happened, because that‘s what normal things are between you and him. It, like all things with Art, does. A birthday slash graduation trip that turned into a weekend at the beach. No plans, no budget, just a spontaneous one. So fucking reckless and irresponsible. YOLO, what he always says to you when he asks you to do something spontaneous with him. Trip. Movies. Resto. Everything. That was enough. That was always enough when it came to him. You said yes before he even finished the sentence. You always do. Don‘t need to ask twice. If he asks you to jump, you‘ll say how high. If he calls for an emergency, you‘ll come, even if his emergency is just picking which clothes he will wear for the match. And now you‘re here, crammed into the back of his car, half-sober, half-numb, trying not to think about how this might be the last time you see him like this without consequence.

Art is driving. One hand on the wheel, the other slung lazily out the window, sun catching the bones in his wrist. The wind keeps blowing his curls into his eyes, but he doesn‘t fix them. You want to reach out and do it for him, but you don‘t. He has that curly blonde hair you always want to run your fingers through. But well, you‘ve done enough of that, it‘s nothing new the fixing things he doesn‘t ask you to fix, offering pieces of yourself he never asked to keep. He glances in the rearview mirror once. Not at you. At her. Tashi. She‘s sitting in the passenger seat like she‘s always belonged there, and maybe she has. Maybe that‘s the part that hurts most.

Patrick‘s next to you, headphones on, mouthing along to some sad gay song like he‘s in a different movie entirely. Like he‘s annoying the fuck out of you about this situation. You‘re grateful for him, really, for his silence, for the way he doesn‘t ask you what‘s wrong. He already knows. He‘s the one who knows you and Art too closely. You tell him things, but he doesn‘t rat you out to Art. Sometimes you think everyone knows it already. Like it‘s not a secret anymore, well except for Art. It‘s just a punchline. Seven years in love with your best friend, and he still introduces you as his “bro” when he‘s drunk. You laugh too hard at his jokes. You always have. It‘s easier than saying you‘re scared he‘ll leave and forget you entirely.

By the time you arrive, the sun‘s too bright and the sand‘s too hot and you already feel like you‘re a mess. The air smells like salt and cheap alcohol. Art‘s shirt is off before the car even finishes parking. He runs straight toward the water, laughing, yelling something you can‘t hear. Tashi follows. You sit on the hood and watch them, beside Patrick who‘s ready to tease you already. To give you a reality check. You don‘t take a photo. The view is so beautiful, too bad you‘re not in the mood. You don‘t move. You feel like the only person on earth who knows they‘re living inside a memory. Patrick opens a beer beside you and offers one without a word. You take it. Drink half in one go. It doesn‘t help. You ask him something stupid like, “Do you think we‘ll remember this?” and he says, “Only if it hurts enough.” And god, you think maybe that‘s the truest thing you‘ve ever heard.

Later, when the sky turns heavy and violet, someone suggests karaoke like it‘s a joke. Like they don‘t know the kind of night they‘re summoning. But Art lights up, yeah, of course he does, and you‘re already nodding before you think better of it. Because you know he will ask. That‘s how it always is. One look from him and you forget your boundaries. You forgot to take. You forgot what you really are to him. You forget you ever wanted to have any. And the place is a patchwork of bad lighting and worn leather booths, and the mic smells like every feeling that‘s ever touched it. Art picks something old and loud, something to shout with his whole body, and Patrick howls through every line like he‘s exorcising something. You‘re on your second beer. Your third. You lose count by the time you‘re singing with Art, shoulder to shoulder, yelling lyrics you don‘t know into the same mic. He looks at you like a memory. You look at him like a prayer.

Then he says, “I love you,” in the middle of the chorus, smiling at you, but it‘s followed by “bro,” and that‘s the part that lodges in your throat. You don‘t even like that- that fucking term. It‘s a punch in your face. That one fucking word. That one stupid syllable that flattens everything you thought maybe tonight could be. Everyone claps. You do too. You smile like it‘s funny, like it doesn‘t hurt. But you feel it. In the pit of your stomach. You feel it wants to be cut out and thrown in the ocean. In your jaw, clenched around the scream you won‘t let out. Like you want to scream at him if he‘s blind.

Bottle after bottle, you find yourself sitting outside with a cigarette you don‘t finish and a heart that won‘t shut up. Art plops down beside you, drunk and golden, knees bumping yours. “You good?” he asks, voice slurred just enough to make him seem soft. You nod. Of course you do. What would you even say? That you‘re not sure you can keep doing this? That being his friend feels like bleeding in public and hoping no you can just hit him in the head to the point he‘ll have an amnesia and tell him you‘re his girlfriend?

Yeah, no, that won‘t work, so you just sit beside him. Let him talk about nothing. About surfing tomorrow. About how Tashi‘s good at it, apparently. It‘s not like you have anything against the woman, you don‘t. You can‘t just help to feel envious that will maybe, maybe make you say shitty things if you are just in front of Patrick. But you just nod again. You keep nodding. And when you finally speak, it‘s just to say, “Let‘s go back.” Not because you want to. Because if you stay here one second longer, you‘ll say the wrong thing - or worse, the truth.

You love the place you guys picked. But right now it just feels different. The room feels like it‘s breathing without you. The windows rattle slightly from the ocean wind outside, the curtains flutter like someone else‘s heartbeat. And Art is perched at the edge of the bed with his guitar in his lap, bare feet on the floor, hair damp from the shower. He looks golden in the lamplight. Familiar. Comfortable. You‘ve spent years memorizing this version of him. The quiet one, the one that only shows up at 1 a.m. when no one else is looking. The version that looks so peaceful. The one who loves music besides tennis. The one who- who gets your heart. He plays something without a name, just a slow set of chords, barely holding shape. Maybe it‘s something he‘s composing. It should soothe you. Instead, it burns.

He doesn‘t notice you watching him. Or maybe he does and doesn‘t care. You always have the chance to look at him because... because he lets you. Or probably he‘s just that oblivious. You‘re sitting on the floor with your back to the wall, knees pulled tight to your chest like that could keep it all in. The want, the ache, the exhaustion of waiting. The pining. He hums under his breath. You swallow around the lump in your throat.

“Seven years,” you say suddenly. It startles even you. He pauses, one hand still on the frets. You don‘t know why you bring it up but the following words you‘ll say will fuck you up, you just know that.

“What?” he questions, your words made him stop playing his guitar and look up at you.

You let out a shaky breath. “I‘ve been in love with you for seven years.” You quickly press your lips together. Feeling the environment. Feeling him how he‘ll react. Observing him. Overthinking many things.

It hangs there, heavy and soft, too real to take back. You watch his face. First confused, then careful. He blinks like he‘s trying to remember something important. You keep going, because if you stop now, you‘ll never start again. You will never say shit again if you are sober.

“I don‘t know when it started. Maybe when we were I don‘t know... seventeen? Eighteen? And you asked if I wanted to walk home instead of calling a cab. Or when you shared your fries and said you didn‘t want to eat alone. Or maybe it was every time you told me something that felt small to you, but I carried it around for days. I don‘t know. I just know that I‘ve loved you. Quietly. Constantly. For seven fucking years.”

He doesn‘t speak. He just stares with his mouth half-open, hands still resting on the guitar like he forgot they were there. You don‘t look away. Not this time.

“I don‘t want anything from you,” you say. “I just didn‘t want to leave without telling you. I wanted you to know that someone loved you that long. That hard. Even if you never noticed.”

And that‘s when he kisses you.

He kisses you like he‘s doing you a favor. Like it‘s the polite thing to do. You feel it instantly. The shape of it, the temperature, the lack. His mouth on yours is nothing like you imagined. It‘s soft, yes, and it‘s careful, but it isn‘t full. It isn‘t real. He doesn‘t touch you like someone who‘s been waiting seven years to feel your mouth. Like... like someone who will think like fuck I want her too despite of the friendship. He touches you like someone trying to soften a blow. Like someone stalling. You don‘t even close your eyes. You just wait for the part where it starts to matter and it never comes.

You pull away, slow and stunned, like your body already knew before your brain caught up. Your face is warm, but not from the kiss. Not from anything good. You feel numb. Like a robot or something. He‘s still looking at you like he doesn‘t understand what just happened. Like you kissed him. Like this is something you started. You wait for something, anything. A breath. A question. A fucking name. Or maybe something like, Are you drunk? Or let‘s do it better, maybe call you bro? But there‘s nothing. Just his face, blank and open, like maybe you should say thank you.

So you just pulled back before the kiss could become anything. Before you convince yourself to pretend it feels like love. His hand is still on your face when you say it, quiet, tired, done. “Don‘t do that.” Your voice doesn‘t shake. It‘s steady in the way grief is steady. “Don‘t kiss me just because you don‘t know what else to do.” You wait for his face to shift. To see his reaction. To read him like you always do. For guilt, for panic, for anything human. Maybe today is the day you won‘t be able to read what the situation is because he just looks at you like you‘ve made things difficult. Like you‘ve embarrassed him.

He just sits there, watching you like he‘s hoping you‘ll backpedal. Like you‘ll laugh and say it was a joke. Like you‘ll make it easy again. But you‘re drunk enough to do that anymore. You are too aware despite the drinks. You‘re not young anymore. You‘re not stupid. You‘re just tired. Tired of loving him the way he‘s always let you quietly, invisibly, as long as you never asked for anything back.

And what gets you, what really fucking gets you is that he didn‘t even say no. He didn‘t reject you. He didn‘t turn away, or flinch, or apologize. You keep thinking and thinking that all the things you say, he‘ll be just speechless. Stunned? But he can just kiss you? Kissed you like a Band-Aid. Like pity. Like he was trying to keep you from crying, not because he cared, but because it would be inconvenient if you did. He kissed you to shut you up, and you almost let him.

You nod. Not because you understand, but because you‘ve finally decided to stop waiting. You stand. You don‘t slam the door. You don‘t say anything else. There‘s no last word. You don‘t say anything after that. You don‘t need to, anyway. Just you, leaving with your mouth still tasting like him, and your heart still convinced you should‘ve waited five more seconds, just in case. Just in case he would‘ve said it. Just... just maybe he came to his senses and said anything. Something.

You don‘t cry in the hallway. Not yet. You don‘t have the dignity for that. You just press your back to the wall, close your eyes, and try to remember what it felt like to still believe he could love you back. So stupid. So dumb for someone who‘s always receiving compliments about being smart. And when the tears come, they don‘t come loud. They come like shame. Slow. Quiet. Familiar. You feel like you just stabbed yourself in the stomach way up to your chest. That‘s how it feels. Seven years.

You think about what you said. I love you. Three words you spent seven years swallowing, and when they finally left your mouth, they didn‘t sound brave. They sounded desperate. Like you said, it‘s because you are too tired to feel it anymore. Desperate that he will love you back. It was easy to mean them in the moment, easier than you thought it would be. But now they sit in your mouth like something spoiled. Bitter. Embarrassing. You thought saying it would free you, like maybe the weight would lift once it was real. But it didn‘t. It just made you feel stupid. Like you misunderstood the assignment. Like you ruined something that was never yours to begin with. You weren‘t brave. You were just drunk. And stupid. And still in love with someone who looked you in the face and offered you silence.

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

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