summary: with his marriage on the rocks and his self esteem in the gutter, art clings onto the next best thing—his therapist.
pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader
warnings/tags: 2.9k words, 18+ content (mdni), male masturbation, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, slight praise kink, therapist!reader, infidelity, everyone’s cheating, fucked up and dgaf, tashi and Patrick mention, art isnt well but you knew that, pls don’t shag your therapists
a/n: can you believe I started writing this fic in September of last year 😭, crazy but happy belated challengers anniversary!! and shout out to @baelatargs who read every iteration of this fic, love youuuu <3
Art shouldn’t be falling for you so hard.
Yet when you look at him with such empathy and understanding whilst he talks about the impact of his current losing streak and his recurrent injuries had on his career and mental health, he feels seen. In a way even his own wife fails to acknowledge, you see him at his most basal form. Not as the famed athlete, the beacon of tennis that the media hails him to be nor the ambassador of the many brands he can’t be seen without. Just as Art.
Pathetic.
Is what Tashi would say whilst they argued, hushed and with all the doors closed so Lily would have some semblance of a normal childhood. As if touring with a child across the world and spending most of their formative years away playing professional tennis on the world stage was anything normal people did. Art knew Tashi loved him in her own way and the dedication she showed to better his career was the biggest act of love she had displayed to him.
But it didn’t mean that their relationship wasn’t fraught.
Things between them were cold, sterile, almost clinical; it felt like when Lily wasn’t there. The only warmth that was present in her demeanour was when she spoke about her daughter or when the press asked her how she felt about her husband’s latest win at the tournament that just elapsed. Never was it about him, the questions asked about their personal life being evaded with a grace that brought PR firms and its representatives to shame.
So Art chose to seek solace elsewhere.
Not on the dating apps or the countless influencers and models in his DMs—that was cheating in his book. He preferred to sit in your plush yet inviting office once a week and open up to the only person who couldn’t really judge him. You’d be there with your pen and notebook in your hand, trying to sort out the embellished details from the facts, allowing him to express his emotions and feelings whilst challenging his beliefs.
It was simple, textbook stuff really.
He saw it as a nice contrast but he preferred the validation more. His faults and errors that you’d pointed out that he should work on being a mere ripple in the vast pool of validation that he’d been receiving. That was all he wanted. To feel like he did a good job, not as a tennis player, but as a father, a husband, hell even a person. Just hearing that you were proud of him after he told you about how he completed the homework you set him was enough to keep him going.
You were gorgeous, albeit a few years younger but the knowledge and expertise you held was beyond your years. In his opinion it was one of the things he found the most attractive about you. You always knew what to say that made him feel better, like a healing balm for his soul that was splintered and frayed by the ever demanding world of professional tennis and his personal life.
The sessions became less frequent as he progressed, going from weekly, fortnightly and now monthly. Art now had an itch he couldn’t scratch. Seeing you monthly wasn’t enough for him. He got obsessive, spending his nights reading about your achievements on LinkedIn or scrolling on your Instagram that wasn’t private, seeing the life you lived outside of the business casual outfits you donned to the office.
He spent his nights in the guest room, his hand wrapped around his cock, the cool metal of his wedding band rubbing against his shaft. Your voice from the recent therapy session that you so innocuously allowed him to record for his own betterment, filling his headphones.
His mind wanders to how’d you feel beneath him, how’d he’ll feel inside you and would you speak to him in that honeyed tone, the one that is currently spurring him on right now? The one that makes him feel validated and secure? And when you say his name, he comes on cue—hot ropes of cum spilling over his hand and stomach, his groans muffled by his hand to not wake his daughter and wife who are sleeping a couple doors down.
When the high subsides and the post-nut clarity hits him, his skin shining in a light sheen of sweat as he catches his breath, Tashi’s words ring resonant in his mind. He truly is pathetic. Jerking off to his therapist, like a horny teenager. He ought to feel shame, he was a family man after all, who swore a vow of marriage to his Tashi all those years ago but things weren’t the same anymore. Besides, he wanted to have a little bit of fun too. If she could have Patrick, he could have you.
Art knew that you’d never make a move. Too many ethical guidelines would be breached and one thing you prided yourself on was having strict boundaries, his subtle flirty remarks bulletproof against your professional demeanour. So he purposely let himself go, regressing to a worse form that differed from when you first met him.
Now he was a man riddled with a toxic cocktail of jealousy, paranoia and insecurity at a level that you now couldn’t handle. After the last session where your attempt to challenge his beliefs about his wife’s supposed infidelity fell on deaf ears, you referred him to another therapist—one that would be more adequate to deal with his needs, one that may be able to finally get through to him.
After his referral, you found yourself thinking about him more than you should and it didn’t help that he was lauded and posted up everywhere. You found him intriguing, a man riddled by paranoia, jealousy and insecurity despite his professional and personal caveats. Against your better judgment and ethics, you ended up emailing his current therapist, Dr. Mellich , about his wellbeing. She gave you limited updates, which was nothing you could glean from.
He looked to be in better spirits, from what you gathered from his post match interviews that were always playing in the office. Dr. Mellich was really a miracle worker, the elation was ever present on his face as he recalled his emotions at the time of beating his opponent and qualifying to the round of 16—A feat for somebody who had the pundits saying that it was time for him to hang up his rackets after a terrible last season.
Things seemed to be looking up for Art. He and Tashi looked less like they hated each other and were more amicable with one another in public, hand-holding and the embraces being enough to quell the divorce rumours. He also became a brand ambassador for a watch brand that he was supposed to care about but it was all the same to him. Yet despite his successes, you still ruminated in the back corners of his mind, your strategies becoming a part of his daily regimen. It was like he had a piece of you all along and he wasn’t planning on letting go.
Art started to attend and speak at mental health panels, sharing the importance of getting help, especially in the sports field, encouraging others to speak up when they were suffering. He’d partnered with mental health charities and starred in campaigns along with other notable celebrities and fellow sports personalities. It was an unsuspecting move by someone who rarely gave any public interviews unless it was sports related but the press lapped it up.
What you didn’t expect to see was him being the guest speaker at a panel you had planned to leave halfway through. You’ve already found yourself at the bar by the end of it though, nursing an overpriced cocktail that you probably could’ve made at home. The people around you networking and chatting, probably about nothing of substance so they could probably get brownie points and connections on LinkedIn. Maybe you should make the most of this panel and secure some connections that may come to use in future.
But when that familiar crop of blond hair makes its way through the crowd, turning down pictures and autographs from fans to head towards you. You realise that you had other goals in mind that you wanted to achieve. The former patient that you had been lowkey keeping up with for almost a year had just fallen into your lap as a gift, you believe to be from the universe.
He leads you to a secluded spot, near his hotel away from the fans and the eager paparazzi. He buys you another drink as you sit opposite each other but this time you’re here on your own volition, so eager to be back in his web again.
“So how have you been?” you ask coolly, taking a sip of your drink. A cosmopolitan. A drink you never recalled telling him about but it was a nice coincidence nonetheless. You sit up, shrugging off your jacket, ready to hear about the things he’s been up to since the last time you met as if it was the first time you’ve heard of it all.
“Well I’ve been busy…” he begins before unfurling into a tangent about his current endeavours and you lap it all up. You keep supplying him with more questions, helping you satiate your fix on all things Art.
Soon enough it’s hard to tell where your touch ends and where his begins. A gentle hand on your thigh later ghosts over your waist, pulling you closer to him when a group of friends stumble past you. You play it off, chalking it down to him just being polite. However Art is relentless in his pursuit for your affection, you’d finally entered his orbit and he wasn’t going to let you walk away.
“Stay,” He murmurs, pulling you closer to him. Feeling him this close to you, your skin, your body was making your brain short circuit. Usually you weren’t the type to comply with the wants of men and their desires but why did he make it sound so good? He watches you toy with the idea in your mind, the battle between logic and hazy desire fanned by the flames of the cosmopolitans you necked down moments before ever present on your face.
“I don't think–I mean you’re…and I just can’t.” You shut him down, logic seemingly winning the battles of wills this time. He watches you stand on your feet, fishing through your purse for your phone so you could call an Uber to your hotel across town. You eventually find your phone just for it to be dead. Art can’t thank the Lord that he stopped believing long ago enough, making a silent vow to attend service when he has the time.
“Shit.” You nervously rock on the balls of your feet, unsure of what to do. Sure, you could be stubborn and ask any of the other patrons to borrow their phones to book a taxi home or you could swallow your pride and take him up on his offer.
He knows what you’ll choose.
The elevator dings once you reach the 16th floor luxury suite with Art in tow. He lets you in with a swipe of his keycard and you take a second to marvel at what his tennis earnings had gotten him. The room was spacious, a massive upgrade compared to the hotel you were staying in across town. You wondered if his wife and daughter were around but a quick sweep of the room said otherwise, he came here alone.
“Can I take these off for you?” You don't even notice him kneeling before you, shirt slightly unbuttoned and his hair slightly tousled. His hand running up and down your leg awaiting your command. It’s hard to say no to him when he looks up at you, his eyes full of need and looking eager to please.
You nodded, giving him the green light to lose yourself in the pleasure that he was offering you in the moment. He takes off your heels, trailing kisses up your leg, maintaining eye contact with you throughout. You squirm at the ticklish sensation that his stubble leaves against your skin.
“Gorgeous,” He whispers against your skin, his large calloused hands running over your thighs, slowly hiking up your skirt.
He pulls off your panties with ease, taking a moment to marvel at your soaked core that was weeping just for him, just for his touch. Art takes a tentative swipe at your folds, not missing the strangled whine that left your lips. He feels heady with power, knowing that him alone has got you this worked up. He wastes no time getting acquainted with your pussy, his tongue circling your clit whilst he slowly works you open with his fingers, stretching you out, one finger at a time.
He glances up at you and seeing you in that state, mouth hanging open and your brows knitted as he continued to eat you out like a man starved was enough to make his cock twitch. It didn’t help that your manicured nails that were currently gripping his hair were pulling him deeper into your cunt, your hips bucking up, shamelessly wanting more of him.
Your legs started to tremble from Art’s ministrations but his arm kept you firm against the bed, leaving you no room to escape him. Your cries fell on deaf ears whilst he nestled between your thighs, getting comfortable as he sucked and slurped your juices without a care in the world. He knew he was getting greedy but he couldn’t help it, not when he was finally living out the same fantasies he got off to every night.
It was hard to think about the ethics and morality of this situation when he was eating you out like he had something to prove. “You’re doing so good,” You praised him, not even knowing what you were saying at this point. You just wanted him to keep giving you that constant pleasure that you’d been craving for.
“You mean it?” He panted, pressing a chaste kiss to your inner thigh. Art didn’t have to be asked twice, already sucking on your clit whilst stretching you open with his fingers. The cool metal of his wedding band against your pussy makes you shiver slightly. It was all getting too much. From the sounds he was making, to the way he was shamelessly rutting his hips into the sheets—you knew you weren’t going to last long.
White hot pleasure ripped through your body as you finally came, sending shockwaves through your body as you gushed all over him. He finally came up, licking off the last of your juices with a grin.
“Best pussy I’ve ever tasted.” He said, pressing kisses to your inner thighs which made you shiver slightly, still reeling from the mind numbing orgasm you had just a few seconds ago.
Art fucks you with a fervor that speaks of passion and slight desperation that only a man who hasn’t touched his wife has. His movements are rushed, hurried like this’ll be a cruel dream if he doesn’t bury himself inside you soon and subconsciously utters words of love and affection that you know is meant to be for his wife.
You didn’t expect this sexual encounter to trigger an emotional response but as you made contact with the man that was bringing you to the edge of release through lidded eyes, you could tell this was more than physical for him.
“We could always have baby number two, like you said,” he muttered but it wasn’t to you. His eyes were glazed and his pupils were wide as saucers, like he could feel Tashi’s essence in this room which lowkey concerned you. Well at least he still loved his wife even if he was balls deep inside of you.
You tuned out his babble and focused on your own pleasure that he was giving you.
You were arriving at the pinnacle of pure pleasure and Art looked increasingly determined. His hips were snapping into you, knocking the wind out of your chest and turning you into cock hungry machine who’s sole goal was mind numbing pleasure.
“Come for me sweetheart,” he rasped, his blue eyes darkening whilst he watched another orgasm rip right through you, sending you spiralling. This was an image he was gonna have on repeat for the next time he got lonely. He followed soon after, finishing with a groan before tying up his condom and throwing it away.
He joined you on the bed, slumping down beside you and pulling you closer to him. “You were better than I imagined,” he pressed a chaste kiss on the top of your head before falling into a deep slumber.
You didn’t stay for long. Not even
Once your phone was charged and your clothes were back on, you drafted a quick text to your friend who’d been blowing up your phone since you went dark. It was full of typos and your message was all over the place but it was nothing you couldn’t polish up once you got in your Uber back to your hotel room.
You hated dealing with all those awkward conversations and emotions after hooking up with someone and the complex golden boy was no exception to that rule either.
After all, you both got what you wanted in the end. He got a quick fix and you’d gotten a quick fuck.
could i request we almost broke up again last night with art? angst/smut, perhaps their relationship is on the rocks but the makeup sex is just too good </3
a/n: thank you sweetheart <33 so so in love with this idea (and frat!art...)
warnings: 18+ mdni, smut. light angst (breakup), unprotected p in v (reader is on birth control), angry sex.
taglist: @voidsuites @bluberrychampagne @nozhdyved @trailerparkangell @linesfromlondon @avasarchve @scariffs @pittsick @challengers4ev @patrickzweigsdefender @linaskywalker @notoriousteengirl @ravensreadingrecs @radioharrington @slfglow @coolgrl111 @vixslsz @mfmikefaisttt1 @meetmeatyourworst @coochiemama3000 @carpenfaist (to be added)
as winter settled over the campus, you and art had drifted apart. initially high school sweethearts following each other to college, but art had changed. he joined a fraternity and spent his weeks partying whilst you chose the library.
the sound of him stumbling into the room woke you up. you barely remember falling asleep, art had told you earlier that he had a frat meeting to attend.
‘what time is it?’ you groan, rubbing your face.
art’s eyes went wide with panic. ‘baby! hi!’ his smile is strained.
he’s rushing over, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. you lean in, before recoiling.
‘are you drunk?!’ you splutter, horrified.
‘not right now…’ he muttered, scratching the back of his neck.
‘but you were?’ you accuse, eyes narrowing.
‘sure… i had a couple.’ art shrugs, averting his gaze.
your brow furrows. ‘i thought you had some sort of meeting?’
‘i did! i did… it just ran over, you know how it is.’ his laugh is hollow.
‘no i don’t actually.’ you snap, sharper than intended and art falters.
you glance down at your watch, it was 2:30am.
‘you went to a fucking party, didn’t you?’ you glare at him and his ears redden.
‘what? no, i went to the meeting and it spiralled from there.’ art’s stuttering, startled.
‘oh really? what was it about then?’ you counter, folding your arms over your chest.
‘well…um…’ art swallowed, hard.
‘i knew it. i fucking knew it.’ you fling your arms up in despair. ‘you blew me off to go party with those idiots!
‘that’s not what happened, baby. i swear!’ he protested but it was too late.
‘we’re done.’ you say curtly, pushing past him.
‘you don’t mean that.’ art scoffs, though his tone is laced with fear.
‘oh i do. you’ve been awful to me for weeks and i’m sick of it.’ your own voice wobbles then but your lips purse sharply. ‘it’s over.’
art’s frozen in shock and utterly speechless.
‘please baby, don’t do this.’ he pleads, tone almost whimpering.
you pause, ‘why not?’ you retort.
‘because i love you.’ art utters honestly and it makes your heart stop, you hadn’t heard that in forever.
before you can retaliate, art’s on top of you. his warm palms are cupping your face, lips pressed to yours needily. maybe it’s the tension, or the heat radiating from both your furious bodies, but it’s the best kiss you’ve ever had.
within seconds, you’re underneath him on his creaky bed. art’s panting as he looks up and down your body ravenously.
‘i love you so much.’ he murmurs as he undresses and tosses it all onto the floor.
‘how much?’ you taunt breathlessly, fingers hooking into your underwear to reveal your aching cunt.
‘god…’ art exhaled, hypnotised by the sight of your glistening folds.
spitting on his fingers, two slide in easily and you moan. scissoring them inside you, it offers him a glimpse of your perfect hole and he’s choking on his own desperation.
grabbing a half used bottle of lube, you’ve never seen him spread it on his erect cock so fast. his tip is brushing against your pussy, teasing it as he strokes up and down.
‘oh god… please… ’ you whine, begging.
when art finally enters you, his weeping cock squeezed by your gummy walls, his groans are inhumane, whole body shuddering with relief. once he’s seated deeply in you, and your eyes are rolling into the back of your head, he starts.
‘i. love. you.’ he grunts between thrusts, his cock splitting you open. ‘so. much.’
‘uh-huh!’ you whinny, high-pitched and lost in pleasure.
‘fucking. love. you.’ he moans, deep and low as his orgasm crashes over him, his seed filling your hole, causing you to gasp.
his movements are jerky, buried inside you until he’s empty. when he pulls out, art immediately collapses beside you, exhausted and throwing one sweaty arm around you.
‘please don’t break up with me.’ he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder and promptly falling asleep, leaving you trapped.
‘wait… so did you or didn’t you?’ your friend asked over coffee the next morning.
summary: when Art Donaldson met Tashi Duncan, he fell in love—and never really fell out. years later, even after he builds a life and marriage with you, the ghost of Tashi lingers in every silence, every glance, every unanswered question. you love him, and he loves you—but sometimes love isn’t enough when part of his heart has always belonged to someone else.
pairing: art donaldson x gn!spouse.
cw: slightly au. angst. emotional infidelity. themes of inadequacy and being second choice. marriage breakdown. arguments. heartbreak. references to long-term unrequited love.
There are certain days that never leave you, even when you beg them to. For Art, it was the day he and Patrick first spotted Tashi Duncan on the other side of the tennis court. She was eighteen, her ponytail swinging as if she had a halo of light around her, and she carried herself with a confidence that left every boy and girl they knew looking half-finished.
It wasn’t fair, the way the world tilted then.
Patrick fell first—no surprise there, Patrick always had the reckless streak, the instinct to dive headfirst into whatever caught fire in him. But Art wasn’t immune. He watched her hit a backhand that sang against the strings, and something inside of him broke open. He was in love before he even knew her middle name.
But Tashi chose Patrick.
And Art—well, Art got good at pretending. Pretending not to notice when her hand lingered on Patrick’s neck, when she whispered to him after matches, when Patrick beamed at her as if she were oxygen and he had been drowning all his life. Pretending that it didn’t gut him, that it didn’t make his chest tighten with a longing he could never admit.
Stanford was supposed to be a clean start. Tashi wanted the prestige of the university and the tennis program. Patrick wanted the tour, the rush, the freedom. Art followed Tashi—not for her, never for her, he told himself, but for the education, the chance to keep building something that wasn’t going to collapse under the weight of one girl.
But nights in the dorms stretched long and heavy, and he could swear he was able to hear Tashi laughing into the phone with Patrick, her voice breaking into softer, sweeter tones he never got from her in person. Sometimes he’d sit at his desk and try to focus on his coursework, his racket leaning against the wall, and he’d feel something corroding him from the inside out.
He dated. Of course he did. He tried to be normal. There were girls and boys on campus who liked the way he was polite, the steadiness in his eyes, the fact that he wasn’t as loud as Patrick, as sharp as Tashi. But every dinner ended with the quiet collapse of his interest. No one glowed the way she did. No one made him feel that dizzying heat in his chest.
Until you.
You weren’t like her. That was the first relief. You weren’t an echo of Tashi, weren’t built of fire and glitter and impossible sharp edges. You were slower, steadier, the kind of person who looked at people and really saw them. Art noticed it the first time you met at a mutual friend’s birthday dinner—a crowded restaurant table, pitchers of beer sweating between plates of fries, everyone talking too loud.
You sat across from him, patient, listening while others interrupted and overran each other. When you finally did speak, you looked directly at him, not through him, and asked about his last match. Not Tashi’s. His.
He remembered how it made his throat close. How he had to clear it before answering.
You weren’t dazzled by him. You weren’t trying to peel something from him the way others did. You laughed softly, the kind of laugh that filled space without demanding it. When you excused yourself to grab another drink, Art sat there staring at the condensation ring your glass had left behind.
Later, when he asked for your number, it felt like the first real thing he’d done in months.
Days slipped into weeks and weeks slipped into months after meeting you. Study dates in quiet corners of the library, walks back to your dorm after late-night practices, your hand brushing his until it finally stayed there. He found himself waking up earlier, practicing harder, not because he wanted to impress Tashi anymore but because he wanted to tell you about it after.
And for the first time in years, the weight in his chest eased. You made space for him without even trying. You asked about his parents, about his favorite movies, about the scars on his knees from endless dives on the court. You looked at him like he was whole.
But when he kissed you for the first time—outside your dorm, under the flickering streetlight—there was still a flicker of her. Tashi’s ghost, bright and unbearable, whispering that this wasn’t love, not really. That love was something sharper, crueler, brighter than what he had now.
He ignored it. He kissed you again, harder this time, and when you smiled against his mouth, he told himself that was enough.
It had to be enough.
Because if it wasn’t, he didn’t know how much longer he could keep chasing someone who had never once looked back at him.
The beginning of your relationship was warm. That was the word you would have used if someone had asked you what it felt like to be with Art Donaldson. Warm. He was steady in ways college boys rarely were. He texted back. He held doors without thinking twice. He looked at you in quiet hallways like you were worth being patient for.
It was easy to fall into him. Easy to start marking the calendar not by midterms or tournaments, but by the dinners you cooked together in your shared kitchen, by the slow mornings tangled in his sheets, by the way he would lean his head against your shoulder when he was tired but didn’t want to go back to his dorm yet.
And for Art, you were a balm. He told himself that over and over: this was good. This was healthy. With you, he didn’t feel like he was burning alive every time Tashi walked into a room. He could breathe.
Still, there were cracks—hairline fractures that neither of you wanted to acknowledge at first.
Like the way Art would stiffen when Tashi’s name came up. She was in your classes sometimes, bright and ruthless, her eyes always scanning, always sizing. You’d catch Art glancing at her across the quad, and then catching himself, snapping back to you as if he’d been caught with a hand hovering over the stove.
Or the way he would sometimes go quiet after phone calls, eyes flicking down, jaw working. You knew it wasn’t his parents. It wasn’t Patrick, either, not always. You didn’t need to ask.
But when he turned back to you—when he kissed you like you were air in his lungs—you wanted to believe it didn’t matter. You wanted to believe you could drown out the shadows.
Months became years.
Stanford ended, but you didn’t. Somehow, that surprised you. You moved in together, your boxes stacked alongside his trophies and rackets, the apartment smelling like paint and possibility. He hung a photo of the two of you on the wall, your arms wrapped around each other at a beach picnic, your hair messy, his eyes half-shut from the sun.
You kissed him that night—it had been five years since you both started dating—pressed him back into the couch cushions, whispered against his throat, “We’re really doing this, huh?”
And he smiled; an honest, open smile that cracked something in you—and said, “Yeah. We are.”
But marriage was different. Marriage was heavier.
You stood in front of friends and family, rings glinting, and promised him forever. He promised it back. And for a while, forever seemed possible.
You knew Art loved you. You felt it in the way he brushed your hair out of your face when you were sick, in the way he drove across town to pick you up when your car broke down, in the way his hand always sought yours when the world felt loud.
But you also knew—though you tried not to admit it—that sometimes his eyes looked past you. That sometimes, in the middle of the night, when he thought you were asleep, he stared at the ceiling like a man listening for footsteps that never came.
Tashi and Patrick were still together, still that hurricane that had always existed on the other side of his world. They came to dinners, to matches, to holidays. You told yourself it didn’t sting, watching Tashi lean her chin on Patrick’s shoulder while Art poured wine. But sometimes, when you caught the way Art’s smile tightened, when you saw the flicker of something unreadable in his expression, you wondered how deep the old wounds went.
You never accused him. You never wanted to be that person. But when you slipped into bed beside him at night, pressing your forehead to his back, you whispered a question you weren’t sure you wanted the answer to.
“Am I enough?”
He would always twist around, frown, kiss your temple. “You’re everything.”
And you wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to.
The years kept moving. His career rose and fell in waves, injuries looming like storms. You were there through the surgeries, through the rehab, through the nights when he thought maybe he should quit. You held his hand, reminded him who he was outside of the court, reminded him that he was more than trophies or rankings.
And he looked at you like maybe you were saving him. Like maybe he believed it.
But sometimes, when you caught him watching Patrick on television, or worse—when you saw Tashi in the stands, clapping, her smile as sharp as it had been in 2006—you felt the fissure in your chest widen.
Because you knew.
You knew you were holding a man who loved you, yes—but who had also never stopped loving someone else.
And no matter how much you gave him, no matter how much you tried to be the warm, steady place he could come home to, part of him was still reaching for a ghost he’d never touched.
You had thought marriage meant safety.
Not safety from the world—you knew better than that. But safety from the kind of loneliness that gnawed at you even when you weren’t alone. Safety from wondering if you were truly seen.
And most nights, Art gave you that. He came home, dropped his bag by the door, wrapped his arms around your waist, and breathed against your neck like the day had only just started once he’d touched you. Those were the nights you let yourself believe.
But there were other nights.
Nights when he came home distracted, his smile thinner, his eyes skimming the room before landing on you with something like guilt. Nights when he sat too long in front of the muted TV, staring at matches he wasn’t in, his fingers drumming his thigh until you gently stilled them with your hand.
And always—always—the shadow of her.
Tashi Duncan.
She wasn’t yours to hate. You tried to remind yourself of that. She hadn’t stolen anything from you. She had simply been herself: brilliant, magnetic, impossible to ignore. You could never fault her for being the kind of person who burned so brightly that others orbited her.
But the truth was, you hated her anyway.
Not out of jealousy, not really—because it wasn’t her fault Art had never managed to carve her out of his chest. It was because you were exhausted of being measured against her. Against a ghost, a memory, a choice she had made years ago when all of you were just kids fumbling in the dark.
Sometimes you’d catch Art looking at her during dinners with Patrick, his expression careful, his mouth curved into that polite half-smile. He thought he was subtle. He thought you didn’t notice. But you did. Every time.
And each time, a little more of you cracked.
It wasn’t just the glances. It was the way her name lived between you, unsaid but palpable. The way he tensed when she texted Patrick during a match and laughed at something on the screen. The way he softened, almost imperceptibly, when she leaned across the table to pour him more wine.
You would lie awake beside him afterward, staring at the ceiling while his breathing deepened, steady and even. And the questions would crawl up your throat until you could barely breathe.
Do you still love her? Do you wish she had chosen you? Would you trade me for her, if you could?
But you never asked.
Because deep down, you already knew the answers.
One night, it spilled out anyway. You hadn’t planned it. You’d been drinking—too much, maybe—and Art had come home later than usual, his shirt wrinkled, his hair mussed from practice. He bent down to kiss you, but you turned your face away, heart thrumming too loud.
“Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like?” you asked, your voice quieter than you meant.
He frowned, straightening. “What do you mean?”
“With her.” You didn’t need to say her name. You both knew. “If she’d chosen you instead.”
The silence stretched like a wire pulled tight.
Art’s jaw clenched. His hand twitched at his side. And then he said, too quickly, “No. I don’t wonder about that.”
But his eyes betrayed him.
And in that moment, something inside you collapsed.
You loved him. God, you loved him more than you’d ever thought possible. You had built your life around the steadiness of his heartbeat, the safety of his hands. But you were starting to realize that loving him wasn’t enough.
Because love, when haunted, was a battlefield. And you were losing.
You tried, after that, to salvage what you could. You tried to be brighter, funnier, lighter. You tried to fill the spaces Tashi occupied in his mind. But every attempt felt hollow, like painting over a crack in the wall without fixing the foundation.
And still, Art loved you. That was the cruelest part. He loved you sincerely. He showed up, held you, whispered the kind of promises that melted in your chest. He wasn’t a liar.
But he was divided. And you couldn’t shake the truth that maybe you’d always been second choice.
One night, months later, you woke in the dark and found him sitting at the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched, his face hidden in his hands.
“Art?” you whispered, reaching for him.
He startled, as if caught. “Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered.
But you knew it wasn’t insomnia. It was her. It was always her. You lay back down, staring at the ceiling, your chest aching with the weight of everything you couldn’t fix.
You had built a marriage on love, patience, and hope. But no matter how much you gave, no matter how fiercely you tried to be his home, Tashi’s ghost was still in the room with you.
And you were starting to wonder how long you could live in a house that was haunted.
It didn’t unravel all at once.
It came apart in threads—thin at first, almost invisible. Missed words. Tight smiles. The way Art sometimes touched your shoulder absentmindedly, as if to remind himself you were there. The way you started measuring your days not by the things you shared, but by the quiet moments you felt yourself slipping away from him.
The dinners with Patrick and Tashi became unbearable. You stopped looking forward to them, stopped trying to dress up and smile. Art insisted, though. He said it was tradition. He said they were his friends. But you knew the truth: he couldn’t stay away from her.
That night at the restaurant, when she laughed at something Patrick said and Art’s eyes lit up—God, it was barely a second. A flash. But you saw it. You always saw it.
You didn’t speak until you got into the car. The silence between you was like sitting in a glass box with all the oxygen slowly draining out. “You love her,” you said. It wasn’t a question. Art’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Don’t do this.”
“Do what? State the obvious? Pretend I haven’t been living with this for years?” You turned toward him, the seatbelt biting into your collarbone. “Just say it, Art. Say you still love her.”
He shook his head once, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the road. “I love you.”
“Then why do you look at her like that?”
He didn’t answer. And silence was the cruelest answer of all. The fights multiplied after that. Small things ignited like dry kindling.
You snapped at him for being late to dinner. He snapped back, saying practice had run long. You asked why he couldn’t text you. He asked why you were always waiting for him like you had nothing else to do.
It wasn’t about dinner. It was never about dinner.
One night, you found him watching old match footage—Patrick and Tashi in doubles, their bodies moving in sync like they’d been choreographed. You stood in the doorway, the blue glow of the TV cutting into your chest.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” you asked softly. He startled, reaching for the remote. “I was just—”
“You were watching her.”
“I was watching the game,” he snapped, harsher than he meant.
You crossed your arms. “You don’t even try to hide it anymore.”
His face twisted, guilt flashing before he masked it with anger. “What do you want me to say? That she’s not in my life? That I don’t care about her? That would be a lie.” You felt your stomach drop. “So I was right.”
“No,” he said quickly, desperately. “You’re twisting it. I care, but I chose you. I married you. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Art,” you whispered, throat tight, “you didn’t marry me because you love me more. You married me because she loved someone else.”
The words rang in the air, undeniable. He went quiet, his shoulders sagging as if you had finally said the thing he had never dared to admit.
After that, it was impossible to go back. The fights came in harder waves. Sometimes loud, sometimes muted.
“Do you ever think about leaving me?” you asked one night, your voice trembling as he undressed for bed. He froze, shirt in his hands. “No.”
“But you think about her.”
He sighed, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I don’t want to do this every night.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Another night, he came home late, sweat still clinging to his hair, and found you sitting at the table with a glass of wine in front of you. “Where were you?”
“At practice.”
“Until midnight?” He dropped his bag, rubbing his temples. “Do you hear yourself? You’re interrogating me like—like I’m cheating.”
“Sometimes it feels like you are,” you said bitterly. “Just not with your body.” His head snapped up, hurt blazing in his eyes. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is being married to a man who shares his heart with someone else.” The glass cracked in your hand when you gripped it too hard, and both of you flinched at the sound.
The final fight came on a rain-slick evening.
You were late coming home from work, drenched and exhausted, and found him in the living room, pacing with a drink in his hand. “Where were you?” he asked immediately.
You blinked at him. “Are you serious? You don’t get to ask me that.”
“I was worried—”
“No, you were jealous.” You dropped your bag onto the floor, your hair dripping onto the carpet. “God, Art, you don’t even want me. You just don’t want me to leave.”
“That’s not true,” he said, his voice breaking. “I want you. I love you.”
“Then why does it feel like I’ve been competing with her for ten years?”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He sank onto the couch, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. And you realized that was the answer. He hadn’t chosen. He never would.
You packed that night. Not all of it—just enough to breathe. A bag of clothes, your toothbrush, the photo albums you couldn’t leave behind. Art stood in the doorway, his eyes wet, his mouth trembling. “Please. Don’t go.”
You looked at him, heart aching so badly it felt like it might kill you. “I’ve been gone for a long time, Art. You just didn’t notice.”
He reached for you, but you stepped back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice raw.
And for a moment, you almost forgave him. Almost told him you’d try again. Almost believed that love could be enough to stitch this broken thing back together. But then you thought of Tashi. Of every glance, every silence, every moment you’d spent wondering if you were only ever second best.
And you walked away.
The sound of the door closing behind you was the loudest silence you’d ever heard.
The divorce papers came in the spring.
Art signed them at the kitchen table where the two of you used to eat breakfast, the morning light spilling across the wood like nothing had changed. His hands shook as he wrote his name, not because he doubted it was the right thing, but because it made it real.
When it was done, he sat there for a long time, staring at the empty chair across from him. He could still picture you there—hair messy, eyes half-lidded, laughing at something small. He wondered if he had ever really deserved that version of you, the one who believed in him so fully, so naively, before the cracks widened into canyons.
You didn’t call after that. You didn’t write. You had given him everything, and when you left, you took nothing except yourself.
Months passed. He saw glimpses of you sometimes, through friends, through social media he should have unfollowed but never did. At first, it hurt—photos of you smiling in places you’d always said you wanted to go, your eyes brighter than he remembered. But slowly, the pain dulled into something quieter, almost tender.
Because you were healing. You were building a life without him, one where you didn’t have to compete with ghosts. And as much as it gutted him, he was glad.
He thought about you at night most often. Lying in bed, the house too quiet, he would remember the way you whispered into his back, Am I enough? and the way he had always said You’re everything.
The truth was, you had been. You had been more than enough.
It was him who hadn’t been.
He thought of Tashi sometimes, too. The way she had stolen his heart when he was younger, the way he had carried her inside him like a wound that never closed. But now, when her name came up, it didn’t ignite him the way it used to. It only left him tired. Empty.
Because in losing you, he understood too late: he had wasted years chasing something that was never his, and in doing so, he had destroyed the one thing that actually was.
He ran into you once, a year after the divorce. At a café. You were with friends, your laughter light, a scarf wrapped around your neck. He almost didn’t recognize you—not because you’d changed, but because you were free.
You saw him, and for a moment, the air froze. Then you smiled—not bitter, not forced. Just a small, kind smile, like someone remembering a song they used to love.
“Hi, Art,” you said gently.
“Hi,” he managed, his throat thick.
And that was all. No long conversation, no reopening of wounds. Just two people who had once tried, who had once built a life together, now standing on opposite shores.
He watched you leave, the bell over the café door chiming as you walked into the sunlight.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t follow. He just let you go.
Later that night, alone in the quiet of his house, he sat at the table with a glass of water and whispered into the stillness, as if you might somehow hear him:
“I’m sorry. I hope you’re happy.”
And for once, the thought of you happy without him didn’t break him apart. It felt like the only ending he deserved.
this one is exposition and build up for the smut eventually! enjoy my princesses
tashi duncan stole from you.
in many ways, many times. the first was when she thrashed you in your very first college tennis tournament. you would always remember the sound she made, that war cry. it was like she had decapitated you or something. she stole victory from you that day.
then she did it again, and again, and again. every single time she played you, she beat you. you could annihilate everyone but her, crushed them all to dust. but she was the one person that would not be decimated. you didn’t speak off the court, didn’t look at each other twice in the halls of stanford. but she had this look on her face. this smug, knowing look. here to lose again? it said. and you weren’t some average joe shmoe tennis girl. you were really good. people that had no reason to bolster your ego had told you that, so you knew it to be true. you were fucking brilliant, and she had no right to look at you like you were dirt. you gave her a tough match, but still she looked at you like she knew she was going to win.
when asked about her, all you could say was “i hate that smug bitch.”
what she said about you you didn’t know, and not for lack of trying. you didn’t know if she even spoke of you at all. the thought made you angrier than when she beat you. once, when at the same party, she waved at you.“hi,” she said, and gave you that same i-just-beat-you look. she was taller than you, and craned her neck unnecessarily far to look at you. where did that stupid bitch get off?
she was this towering roadblock, the one thing stopping you from entering the upper echelons of tennis royalty. you had the fucking talent, you had put in the fucking time, you were so fucking good. but you weren’t stanfords sweetheart. you just weren’t. everyone knew you were good, but you weren’t the best.
from the matches you had watched, which was nearly all of them, you were the only person she played that gave her a run for her money. she didn’t sweat the way she did when she played you, the points were never so neck and neck. she should be threatened by you, and yet she looked at you like any other silly college floozy that was the best in her high school. tennis was your life, as much as it was hers. she stole your dignity in that way.
the next time she stole from you was patrick zweig. a sort of boyfriend, an in-between, getting there boyfriend. he could’ve been yours. you could’ve been happy together. but tashi duncan couldn’t have that.
you heard whispers about a night in a hotel room, a threesome, a twosome with a watcher, two guys jacking off on tashi duncan. they could deny, deny, deny, but whatever did or didn’t happen meant patrick zweig never returned your calls anymore. you could still recount the exact tonality and pacing of his answering machine message.
it was fine. it’s whatever. he wasn’t a forever boyfriend anyway.
but once a girl has sex with someone, she expects some degree of loyalty, some sort of goodbye. it wasn’t about him, he was cute, a good-not-great fuck, and never claimed to be serious about you. he didn’t matter. it was the fact she had him. together or not, she had him. he belonged to her. even after they broke up, everyone knew he never liked any of his other many girlfriends like he loved her. they used to walk around hand in hand, kiss, and it made you brim with jealousy. not because you gave any kind of fuck about him as a person, but because she got him instead of you. it was her. all her. she had stolen one more thing.
as time passed, your hatred burned just as bright. you practiced day in day out, hoping that somehow she could see you now, somehow she would know you were her equal.
then you met a boy. art donaldson.
you had known he was involved with her. the hotel threesome stories spared no details of the parties involved, despite factual discrepancies in other areas. but you figured, while she was dating his best friend, you were safe from the curse of tashi duncan. you allowed yourself to fall in love, softly, timidly. having met in american literature, you fostered a little spark. a love, barely the size of a candles flame, flickered in your chest. maybe, you had prayed. maybe him. maybe he was yours. you kissed at new years for the first time, and days later he met your parents. it was new, fresh, but it was love. you loved him.
and then she stole from you for the final time. in one foul swoop, she took everything from you.
it was the final of the college tournament. the two stanford angels playing each other for the victory. the court was red and packed, newly redone. you both wore white. whoever won this was guaranteed a shot at the open in the summer, and that was all you needed. you were so fucking ready. no one was better than you. no one. you had trained so hard, art could attest to it, hell, the entire school could attest to it. ask anyone who saw you around that time, they would’ve seen a scowl on your face and a racket on your back. those who had the pleasure of watching you play would’ve say it: you were fucking good.
that’s why it crushed you. across from her, at match point, advantage duncan, you watched as her knee moved independent from her leg. in between grunting and pelting, there was a crack, and tashi duncan was no more. a hush fell over the crowd as she cried, fell to the ground clutching her knee. you heard that. but you didn’t hear the ear splitting scream that came from your own mouth, couldn’t feel your body sprint, jump the net to crouch by her side. beads of perspiration rolled down her face, scrunched in agony. she bared her teeth like a cornered animal, and looked up at you through her squeezed eyes. her knee looked awful, so you stared at the rest of her. without thought you placed a hand on the top of her head. to comfort her you think.
it was so quiet. the only sound was her crying, her laboured breath stilling your heart to a lifeless thud.
“it’s ok,” you said,”you’re going to be ok, tashi.”
you remembered feeling an inexplicable sadness, a grief that you had never known before. you wanted to get rid of her pain, any and all of it. none of it came from you, you didn’t want her to have it. but that was so quickly forgotten. because as you moved to touch her shoulder with your shaking hand, it was eclipsed by another. a larger hand, the hand of a man. a pale hand. a hand you had touched before, even kissed. the hand of your man.
your eyes met, each with equal fear, horror and sadness. it was then that you knew that the curse of tashi duncan wouldn’t rest until you died. she would steal and steal and steal, even beyond the grave. he looked caught, because he was. he was caught. once you loved tashi you never stopped. he had raced into the court because she had fallen at a game he attended to watch you play, had touched her shoulder with the hand that had held you. he was not yours, as much as you needed him to be. his eyes twinkled with regret, but told you everything you needed to know.
your hand drew away with a flick, like it had given you an electric shock. you rose from tashis tortured body. his hand slipped to where yours had rested. this was all somehow not her fault, while being her fault entirely. you hated her so much it made your heart bleed. you didn’t want anything to do with her anymore. no whisper of her name, no nothing. from this moment on she was dead to you.
you didn’t bother looking over your shoulder to see if art was watching you leave. he wasn’t. the umpire boomed something through a mega phone, something like wait. but you were going home.
in the hall you bumped shoulders with patrick zweig. he was rushing to find her. he looked at you once to apologise hurriedly, twice to utter your name in recognition, and a third time to look at your back and wonder why you were so down. tashi was out. you won by default.
contains: religious imagery, unprotected sex, this is art before he gets with tashi but after patrick leaves if that makes sense?, angst angst he's repressed haha point and laugh! listen while you read
There's mold in the motel room. Lingering in the corners of it, it climbs up the walls and inches to where Art sat in the middle of the bed. The memory foam had sunk throughout the years, leaving him shirtless in a pool of off-white sheets and condoms. The man in front of him, Elder Jared, was still stripping off his suit, pulling a leather wallet out of his pants pocket and setting it aside. Art can see a flash of a photo, Jared and his fiancé, posing on a beach at sunset. He looks up through lidded eyes, panic thumping in his chest the more Jared strips himself bare.
"...so, how often do you, um-?" Art's cut off immediately by a sharp glare, the missionary turning himself away immediately to unbutton his shirt. He takes the name tag off his shirt and sets it next to his wallet, name and title taunting Art. This is something you can't have.
Of course, Art didn't want to have Elder Jared. Not really. But he couldn't have Patrick (that asshole) or Tashi (she was way too good for him). So... what could he have except for shameful nights in motels that were far away from whatever lavish resort he was staying at? NDAs and hundred-dollar bills being traded back and forth, old poppers in the bottom of his suitcase. He didn't deserve anything more than that, so he would settle for... this.
"Are you clean?" Jared's voice rang through his ears, and Art re-centered himself. The missionary looked down at him, now stripped completely bare. His cock was still soft, but Art was sure that wouldn't be the case in a few minutes. He nodded urgently, leaning himself back on his elbows.
"Yeah. I did my last test two months ago." Shame seems to course through Art like it's the vodka he's been drinking, an emotion not foreign to him. He can barely make eye contact with Jared, and the other man reciprocates that energy. The room is suffocating with an immense amount of disgust and mortification, both too afraid to keep going, but too far to back out. Finally, Jared clambers onto the bed, his body hovering above Art's hesitantly.
"How do you want me?" Art asks, the gold cross around his neck matching Jared's silver one, dangling towards his face. Art wants to suck on it, let the points stab the inside of his mouth, taste the blood that rises from the injuries. He wants Jared to lick inside his mouth until it feels better, so his blood is now transferred, so he's not doing this alone.
There's silence, Jared's stony eyes refusing to meet his. "On your back," he finally grunts out, waiting for Art to position himself. Jared reaches down, stroking himself as he surveys Art's body. "Missionary."
Art cracks a small smile, watching Jared spit into his palm and jerk himself off. "Ha. I get it," he tries, spreading his legs.
Jared doesn't laugh.
It's painful every time. Every quiet grunt swallowed, painful thrusts made worse by the itchy sheets. Art's body jostles around as Jared's hips meet his own, a sinner's skin on another. Art is sure Tashi or Patrick are having a much better time right now... maybe Tashi's got some guy who looks like him, face diving into her cunt, her manicured nails wrapping around blonde curls. Or Patrick's got a cute twink, face down in his shitty car, his firm biceps wrapping the boy closer...
With an unexpected gasp and whimper, Art cums, shooting all over his chest and onto Jared's body as well. His ropes of cum land atop Jared's cross necklace, and suddenly, frighteningly, the tears begin to well up.
Jared pulls back, stung, almost repulsed by the drops falling from Art's eyes. "Are you okay?" he asks, but what he really means is, What is wrong with you?
Art nods and tries to reassure him, but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a shattering sob, crying in pain when Jared pulls out of him quickly. Art's waiting for comforting arms, a kiss to the forehead, a promise of companionship. All he feels is cold.
Art wipes his eyes, sitting up and propping himself against the headboard. Still hard, Jared forces himself back into his pants, refusing to make eye contact with Art, still sniveling to himself.
"I-I'm sorry. That's... it's never happened before," Art attempts to apologize, his voice coming out as a waver. "I'm really sorry. Maybe we could- meet up again?" he offers, reaching out for Jared's hand. The second his fingers made contact with Jared's knuckles, the missionary pulls back, stung.
He glares at Art, holding his hand to his chest, his cross. His faith. "I think it's better if we don't," he says firmly, his voice frigid. Art feels like crying again, like he's tripped on the court during a big game.
"Right, right," he mutters, tucking his knees into his chest as Jared dresses himself. He catches another glimpse of Jared's fiancé in his wallet, diamond ring on her finger. "She's really beautiful. Your fiancé," he tries again, his voice soft.
Jared flips open his wallet, studying the photo. A smile spreads on his face, but his eyes remain hollow, as if carved onto a statue. "Yes," he agrees, tucking his wallet back into his pocket. "She is." Jared pauses, buttoning his shirt back up and affixing his name tag back on. He grabs the unused condoms from the bed, shoving them hastily into his pocket.
Jared lingers by the door, keeping it cracked open for much too long for Art's naked body to handle. "I've never kissed her before," Jared confesses, his voice gravelly and vulnerable. "I will soon. In a few months, at our wedding."
Art bites his lip and nods, waiting for the pinpricks of blood to dye his tongue. "Nice," he whispers, his body moving robotically. "Congrats. I'm, uh, I've got this girl I like. Gonna ask her to be my coach soon."
There's a flash of unspoken understanding in their gazes across the room, the realization that tonight in the motel was a slip for both of them. A mistake that they'd repent for until their chests ache when they thought of the other. Jared took another tentative step back into the room, opening his wallet and pulling out a card. He places it on the dresser, nodding at Art.
"My church," he clarifies, zipping his jacket up. "We'll help you find yourself. They helped me." Those are his last words as he leaves, ominous and confusing. Art stays naked for a while longer, staring at the card. Finally, he stands up, taking the card and tracing over the edges.
A solution. He'll marry Tashi, maybe have a kid, and forget Patrick ever existed. Yeah. Yeah, that was it. And maybe in a few months, he could show up to Jared's wedding, Tashi around his arm, and wink at the man. Knowing that he could be fixed like Jared... it made Art feel comforted.
patrick zweig x f!stanford reader / art donaldson angst
SUMMARY: at the cost of breaking art, you and patrick are stable again, atleast you hoped. the holidays spent together are soon ending and now on top of trying to fix things with art, you have to worry about maintaining something that has been broken once before
WARNINGS: 18+ ! drinking, brief mention of vomiting, arguing, mild smut, internalized guilt, angst, some fluff…idk chaos and sadness just follows this bitch around atp…
WC: 7.8k
A/N: i got so excited for this that i genuinely spent the entire day writing and editing it… hehe. if only i channeled this motivation into my school work oop. ok i’m really glad people liked the first part of this and it has motivated me to give everyone some closure so here is pt 2 :p hope u guys like it !! <3
part 1 - here
masterlist
the next morning you wake up, patrick's arms wrapped around you tight. you shuffle around to face him, lazily looking at how peaceful he is when he's sleeping. you smile, but it quickly fades and that gut wrenching feeling returns. remembering art, his tear stained face and the sound of his voice breaking as he tells you to get out. your stomach sinks the same as it did in the moment, as if you were re-living it. your vision gets blurry as the tears form again, squeezing your eyes shut and silently sobbing. all that played in your head were his words, how much it stung and hurt but it was worse knowing it was all justified.
patrick's eyes flutter open, immediately noticing the hurt on your face. "hey, hey, what's wrong baby?" he comforts, moving his hand to wipe the tears streaming from your eyes. this only makes the tears worse, getting comfort from patrick knowing the only person deserving comfort right now was art. you bury your head into his chest, hand clinging to his shirt as you desperately try to pull yourself together. "i- feel so bad pat" you murmur into his chest with a messy voice. "i know you do- i told you it's gonna be ok" he assures, now rubbing your back soothingly to try and calm you down. patrick sits you up, holding you close as you unravel all your feelings, whispering "i know, i know".
"i promise you, it's gonna be ok again eventually. i know art, i... i trust that he'll forgive you, ok?" he says, tipping your chin up to look at him. patrick frowns, cupping your burning cheeks and kissing your forehead. "i-im sorry" you whisper. "no more apologizing, it's ok" he chuckles. "i'm-" you stop yourself realizing you were about to apologize again, you and patrick both look at eachother and you finally let out a laugh. it's short, but it helped to put and end to the crying. "he um- he actually messaged me last night." you reveal, reaching for your phone.
art:
i'm sorry for kicking you out so harsh, i hope you made it home ok.
to be honest im still really pissed and upset but i don't want to end things like this.
message me when you wake up so we can talk ok?
2:23AM
you show patrick the message, he smiles. "see, it's gonna be ok. c'mere," he pulls you onto his lap holding you in a tight hug, kissing your shoulder repeatedly. "i love you" you whisper. "i love you too. i'm really glad you're here" he replies, sighing deep. sinking into his embrace, you wondered if the anticipated conversation with art would bring any sort of relief. regardless of if he forgave you, would the consuming guilt still linger?
"text him back, you'll feel better after" he suggests, releasing you from his hold and sitting up to stretch. so you do. you grab your phone opening his contact.
you:
you shouldn't be the one apologizing.
i'm really sorry art.
9:02 AM
you let out a shaken exhale, shutting your phone off to look at patrick. "hungry?" he inquires to which you just smile "come on, let's grab something to eat" he adds. patrick lets you get ready and you both get in his car.
one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding yours. in attempt to cheer you up he puts on the radio and starts to awfully sing along to it, poking your thigh and kissing your hand. you laugh, cringing at him but of course joining in.
art:
i don't know if i have time this week to meetup and talk.
i'll message you next week.
9:21 AM
your phone buzzes, and you quickly check. you start to anxiously bite your lip as you read it, patrick notices and stops his exaggerated singing turning into a low hum. "everything ok?" he squeezed your hand, focusing back on the road. "yeah.. um, he just said he's busy this week so we'll talk next week" you say low. patrick hums, "hm, yeah his family always keeps him busy during the holidays" patrick reassures, but still, you wonder if art is just putting it off on purpose. he had every right to. patrick looks over and notices your lost expression, bringing your hand to his mouth and planting a kiss "hey, don't stress it". in response you just mumble "i know" and give a short nod. it was easier said than done.
soon came christmas. being around your family made it more difficult to be 'ok', especially when they kept asking about art. you weren't going to tell them about what happened because you knew it would only make it feel worse. your parents weren't comforting and you knew they wouldn't understand. christmas day was typical, your gifts that were mostly tennis related—new bag, stanford tennis merch and a new racket—your parents of course noting they thought it'd be a nice gesture to better your tennis at stanford.
you and patrick were both wrapped up with family on christmas day, texting eachother under the dinner table to avoid awkward conversations with distant relatives.
patrick:
i wish you were here.
i miss you.
5:20 PM
you:
i saw you yesterday silly
but same, the holidays always feel like such a chore.
5:20 PM
patrick:
what time does your family thing end at?
5:21PM
you:
i'm not sure, usually people start to leave around 7 or 8
5:21 PM
patrick:
can i steal you at 9?
5:23PM
you:
please. lol.
5:23PM
patrick:
perfect. hang in there ❤️
5:23 PM
you:
you too ❤️
5:24PM
it wasn't all bad. while your family in general had its rich offsprings, some of them were genuine and sweet. like your aunt who married into the family, she was always best at hijacking uncomfortable conversations and making it easier for you. holidays with family consisted of the 'common 3' as you liked to call it, being asked about school, tennis or your love life, and your parents always loved to chime in and answer for you.
a few more dreadful hours spent with family the house was finally quiet again and you were skipping out the door to see patrick. you eagerly hop into his car, giving him a few excited pecks before he started to drive. "so what's the plan" you smile, "you'll see, how'd the rest of your night go?" he replies. you fill him in on it all, the amusing bragging wars between relatives, the food, the gifts. eventually you reach your destination, the parking lot beside the outdoor tennis courts. the same tennis courts you'd always sneak off to, the same place you and patrick first met.
"interesting choice?" you giggle. "don't worry we're not here to play tennis, just felt like the right place to give you your gift." he smiles big, stretching his arm behind your seat to grab a small gift bag. "patrick, you-" you start to protest but he interrupts, "oh shush just open it" he laughs, handing you the bag. you look inside seeing a small rough looking notebook. you raise your eyebrows as you pull it out, inspecting it before opening it. the first page is blank, just 'p. zweig' written messily. you skim through the pages, seeing journal entries dated back to may of last year. around the time you had started ignoring patrick. your smile falls as you focus further on the words filling the pages. "when we weren't talking anymore i started writing in here, like- just things i wanted to tell you, i don't know." he stutters, seemingly nervous as he watches you read. as you continue to flip through, you focus solely on the dates, reading a few sentences before continuing to look at the next page. the dates stretched up until last week, the night you two were at the park. reading the first few sentences scribbled on the page.
'seeing you again tonight made coming back home worth it. i wasn't even sure if you'd answer my text, but im glad you did. i wanted to kiss you so bad, tell you how much i missed you and love you, but being that close to you again was enough for me'
you start to tear up, looking back up at patrick with a smile. "patrick, this is so sweet" you choke on a laugh, leaning in to hug him. "yeah? you like it?" he says nervous, holding you close. "yes i love it" you mumble. "i just thought it can be something for you to, y'know, have and read when you go back to stanford after the break".
your breath hitches. that's right. you won't be seeing patrick much at all when the break ends. you had been so caught up in your own pity party with art and spending time with patrick you didn't even think about the distance that was to come. with this realization you clutch onto him tighter, feeling more overwhelmed with emotion.
"shit i-" your voice breaks "i forgot, we.. won't be seeing eachother that much" you tremble. patrick breaks the hug to cup your cheek "hey, it's ok, we'll figure something out. don't worry about that right now, ok?" he assured. "yeah, ok" you sniffle "thank you, i love you" you smile with teary eyes, holding up the notebook. he places both his hands on your face smiling as he wipes away your tears "i love you too".
"oh shit, i didn't get you anything" your eyes widen. "i don't care, you being here is enough of a gift for me" he laughs. "you're sweet," you give a pouty smile "but no, i'm definitely getting you something" you laugh. "if you insist," he grabs the notebook from your hand "but this is pretty hard to top" he jokes, you playfully roll your eyes in response, leaning in to kiss him. "ok but really, i don't want you to stress about the distance thing ok? i'll visit as much as i can, we'll text, we'll call. we'll make it work" he rambles. "ok" you smile, pulling him into a hug again. something that was again, easier said than done. but still, you and patrick had made it this far. this long without seeing each other, still being able to hold on.
the remainder of the break was flying by. utilizing any free time to see patrick, anxiously waiting for the 'talk' with art although he had kept pushing it off. patrick endlessly reassured you that it would be ok, that art would forgive you and he probably was busy. it was hard to believe that though, and you didn't blame him for avoiding you since you had spent so long giving him similar treatment. it hurt but you deserved it. you couldn't help but miss art, in some aspects atleast. you weren't lying when you said he was your best friend, despite not sharing all of your personal problems with him, he was always there for you, you enjoyed his company.
still not hearing much from art, getting short cancellation messages until he finally sent 'let's just talk after the break'. you had spent a lot of time up at night thinking about the conversation, worrying about the end result of it, wondering what you really wanted it to end with. you wanted him in your life still, but how could that work after all that's happened?
patrick took you to a new year’s party his friends from highschool were throwing in the area, hoping to keep you distracted and cheer you up. something you typically would’ve been anxious about attending but you were too stuck on your worry for art. this is the first time patrick would be publicly acknowledging you as his girlfriend, and that hadn’t even clicked to you until you got to the party. everyone was visiting home for the holidays including some friends you had lost touch with.
patrick noticed your strange behaviour early on in the night, keeping a close eye. those ‘old friends’ of yours had eventually stole you away to question your appearance with patrick. you didn’t bother explaining the whole story, giving a half ass “oh i don’t know it just sorta happened”. giving the whole run down would’ve just made you feel worse because then you’d have to explain last year and then explain art and then explain cheating and you were trying to forget about all that stuff tonight. anytime someone would ask “wait i thought you were dating art?” you’d flinch, stumbling on your words until they assumed you were too drunk to form a proper sentence and would leave it alone.
what was supposed to be a distraction quickly spiraled into the constant reminder that you cheated on art with his best friend. you felt sick, and not even from the alcohol that you had been desperately downing for majority of the night—atleast you thought. you let patrick walk all over you last year and then you cheated on art and broke his fucking heart. but patrick apologized, you guys are fine. everything is fine, you guys are together and you understand everything now and you’re happy. but it isn’t ok. you cheated and lied for months, and art keeps cancelling because he is so fucking hurt that he doesn’t want to see you.
the room is spinning, or maybe you are, you don’t know. your mind is racing, about to cry or scream or throw up or all of the above. soon everyone’s shouting, no, counting. counting down from 5. 4. 3. 2. suddenly patrick is right there, you can’t think. he’s smiling, looking down at you, wrapping his arms around you and leaning down to kiss you. 1. you push him away and stumble off as everyone shouts “happy new year!”. you almost fall into the bathroom, crawling towards the toilet to relieve yourself. patrick enters shortly after, quickly closing the door and tending to you “baby, shit- are you ok?!” he holds your hair back as your leaned over the toilet.
you finish, lazily leaning against the wall as you’re sat on the cold tile floor. “how much did you drink?” he asks, sitting beside you and intertwining his hand with yours “i’m fine” you snap, dropping his hand. “hey- what’s wrong?” he asks, looking at you more concerned than before. you start to get up and he attempts to help you. “i said i’m fine patrick” you slur, tone as firm as it can be coming from a drunk girl. “you obviously are not, talk to me, please.” he says worried. “everyone fucking knows patrick! everyone knows!” you shout, sobbing “knows what? tell me please what’s wrong” his words overlapping with yours. “why’d you even bring me here patrick, why?” you ask, exaggerated and hurt. “baby, can you tell me what’s wrong i don’t- i don’t understand” his voice is shaking, eyebrows furrowed as he looks at you. your hands grip onto the counter behind you for stability, “you brought me here to what, cheer me up?” you poke his chest “how can i pretend everything is fine when everyone’s looking at me weird, fucki- fucking asking me ‘where’s art where’s art’ ‘you’re with patrick, oh i thought you were dating art’” you stammer. “like no, im dating patrick, i cheated on art with him actually” you say sarcastically and messy, still pointing and lazily poking him.
patrick’s lips are pursed, his eyes are glossy. he knows you’re in pain, he knows you aren’t meaning to hurt him, but your words sting. he clears his throat “ok enough, you’re just drunk i’ll take you home” his voice cracks. “no, i’m not done.” you protest “patrick i- how is this- how can we make it work if we never see eachother?” you huff, mascara running from your eyes and staining your cheeks. “baby i- i told you don’t worry about that we will figure it out, ok?” he tries to comfort, lifting his hand to cup your face but you push it away. “what if we can’t” you sob. patrick starts to cry. “you can’t just tell me everything is gonna be ok because you don’t know that. you don’t know. art fucking hates me and you tell me, it’s ok, it’s fine, but what if it isn’t.” you continue to snap. “why can’t you trust that we will be ok, if we both-“ he starts but you interrupt “because, patrick. you’ve given me false hope before” you slur, lip trembling.
the wave of nausea returns and you quickly dart to lean over the toilet again. patrick sinks beside you, pulling your hair back and leaning lazily against the wall. he’s getting too caught up in his feelings, he knows you’re just drunk but he can’t help but feel like he’s failing you all over again. “i’m taking you home after, ok?” he mumbles, tilting his head to observe you. “o-ok” you stutter.
patrick cleans you up, pulls himself together and leaves the bathroom with you in his arms. he walks to his car, gently placing you in the passenger seat and praying you’ll make it the drive home without throwing up again. your head is leaned against the window, eyes shut. the original plan was to stay at his house that night but he was too hurt, so instead he dropped you off at yours.
luckily your parents were at a new years party of their own and patrick was familiar with the layout of the house. as patrick lifts you out of the car you start to regain consciousness. he carries you in the house and up to your room. patrick puts you in a change of clothes, lays you on your side and drags your garbage can closer to you. “patrick?” you mutter. “yeah?” he replies. “are you, leaving?” you ask quietly. “d-do you want me to?” he asks hesitantly. “please stay” you pout. patrick sighs in relief, he didn’t want to leave you alone anyways, in the off chance you’d roll over and choke on your vomit during the night. “i’ll stay. i’m gonna go to the bathroom and then i’ll go and grab you some water, ok?”. you nod, watching him leave the room.
you remembered art, that sleep on the drive home was the only break you had gotten from worrying about him. you were so anxious you just decided to pick up the phone and call him. it was stupid late by now, drinks still lingering in your system from the new year’s party, part of you hoped he wouldn’t answer out of sheer nervousness, but on the other hand, you missed your friend. you wanted to hear his voice, wanting so badly for everything to be ok again, for him to be ok. the phone rang 4 times, as it was about to go to voicemail he picked up. “hello?” his voice is scratchy, you realize then, you definitely had woken him up. “h-hey” you stutter, heart pounding. “oh. hi, uhh- it’s kinda late, why are you calling?” he asks confused. “i- just wanted to hear your voice. see how you’re doing.” you reply hesitantly, speech still slightly slurring. “at almost 2 in the morning?” he sounds agitated, “um- yes, sorry. happy new years” you reply casually, a lighthearted giggle slipping out. “i um, ive gotta go. need to be up early sorry, bye” he rushes “oh ok b-“ you start but the call ends before you can finish.
patrick returns a few minutes later with water in hand. he sees you laying on your back staring up at the ceiling. he sets the water on the night stand and climbs in beside you, “lay on your side” he mumbles, wrapping an arm around you. “i’m sorry for what i said earlier” you say quietly. “it’s ok, just rest” he replies, soothingly rubbing your arm. “i was just overwhelmed, i-“ you huff “all anyone wanted to ask me about was you or art and i just wanted to forget-“ he cuts you off “shh, i know baby, im sorry” he kisses your shoulder “get some sleep ok” he whispers. “patrick he-, he hung up on me” you whisper, voice pitched up trying not to cry. patrick continues to kiss your shoulder, pulling you closer to him repeating “it’s ok” quietly. his fingers trace along your skin until you eventually drift off to sleep.
it’s early the next morning when you wake up, patrick’s arm still snug around you. you stumble to sit up, tightly clutching your head in attempt to soothe your pounding headache that was accompanied by a light ringing in your ears. you’re about to search for some kind of pain relief but patrick had beat you too it the night before, a bottle of advil and a glass of water on your nightstand. you chug it back, swallowing the pill and sinking back into the bed groaning.
without noticing, patrick had woken up, swiftly tightening his arms around you and playfully swinging you to the other side of the bed. you gasp, caught off guard but soon start to giggle as he squeezes you and groans. “feeling better today?” he says low, his morning voice rough. “god no, this headache is killing me, keep me away from the booze” you joke. he releases you from his grip and you roll over to face him. with a big smile you lean in to kiss him but he stops you “uh no thanks puke mouth” he laughs to which you scoff. he covers his mouth jokingly and groans “gross” he jokes. “fine” you say sarcastically, springing up to run to the bathroom.
he follows, settling behind you as you stand in front of the mirror. “jesus, were you gonna tell me how much of a mess i looked?” you say, leaning closer to the mirror to inspect the muck that was your smeared mascara and makeup. patrick leans in with you, hands wrapped around your waist. he pushes his crotch against you and playfully squeezes your tits “mess? you look beautiful.” he groans into your neck, planting a few pecks along your skin. your mouth parts, half laughing, half moaning at his antics. you turn around to face him. his finger settles on your mouth “nope. brush first” he smiles. you roll your eyes and reach for your toothbrush and toothpaste.
patrick continues to tease you, watching you close in the reflection of the mirror, his hands wandering over your body and under your shirt. he switches between teasing and tickling you, just basically torturing you as you try to quickly brush your teeth. each time you leaned over the sink to spit he’d press his clothed erection against you aggressively.
finally you finish, hands fumbling to set your toothbrush on its charger and turning around to smash your lips against his. his hand snakes under your shorts to squeeze your bare ass. you bite his lip and he breathes heavy, pressing his body closer to you. your arms are snug around his neck soft whines slipping from your mouth into his. his other hand moves to lightly brush his fingers on your lower stomach, making you pull back and laugh instinctively.
suddenly the door is pushed open and you both gasp, stopping to turn. you’re both met with your mother standing in the doorway. your smile drops quick. “thought i heard noises up here.” she sighs in relief with her hand on her chest. she’s smiling big, almost sinister. “hmm, this doesn’t look like art” she says with a smug tone looking at you with a raised brow. “get out.” you mumble frustrated. she just looks patrick up and down and lets out a short laugh before turning to leave. quite the mood killer.
you give patrick a quick glance and turn back to the mirror, switching on the sink and reaching for your makeup remover. patrick wraps you into a hug, burying his head in your shoulders “awkward” he says muffled, earning a quick laugh from you. he kisses your shoulder and releases his grip to lean beside you on the counter. “hey uh- you remember much from last night?” he asks, slightly nervous. “um sort of, i remember feeling overwhelmed and puking in the bathroom and- wait why? did i puke in your car?!” you quickly glance at him panicked. “god no, made sure you had it all out of your system before stepping foot in my car” he laughs. you splash water on your face, tugging the hung up hand towel to dry yourself “good, wouldn’t want to puke in your beloved honda” you chuckle, turning to give him a quick kiss. “why do you ask” you add, facing back to the mirror and starting to do your skincare routine. “well uh, we argued. do you remember that?” he asks quiet.
you stop, looking over at him. “no, shit- what was it about?” you ask panicked. he sighs in relief, hoping that you not remembering means you didn’t actually mean any of it. “first you were upset about everyone asking about us and um- and art, and then you were doubting us- like- this,” he motions between you two “and you kinda said you didn’t trust me because i’ve given you false hope before”. his words seem accusatory but his tone is calm and careful. “i just- i didn’t know if you had been feeling like that or something so i wanted to talk about it.” he adds. you let out a shaken exhale, “well, i’d be lying if i said i wasn’t nervous about doing long distance.” you start “i mean- im really nervous about it. about not seeing you as much” you finish, fiddling with your shirt.
patrick’s just looking down, nodding. you tip his chin up, “hey, that doesn’t mean i don’t want to try. i love you, i want this to work” you cup his face. “ok” he says quiet “i love you too”. you tilt your head to meet his gaze “hey” you mumble “are you upset with me?” you question. “no, no. i believe you i just- i really don’t want to fuck this up again.” he sighs, leaning into your hand. “you won’t” you assure, he kisses your palm. “from what you said it sounds like i was the one arguing last night. i’m sorry” you laugh lightly. “yeahh, get pretty mean when your drunk don’t you” he jokes. “okk enoughhh” you laugh. “hey um- why did we come back here last night instead of yours?” you inquire. “i dunno, i was feeling pretty hurt about everything afterwards and-“ you cut him off “ohhh i see, you were gonna ditch me” you smile. “you said it not me” he shrugs.
sure you two are just joking around but the thought that you could’ve woken up hungover and alone this morning made your stomach turn. “were you really though?” your voice turns more casual, your hand dropping to your side. “initially, yeah. your words really hurt but you were so drunk i didn’t want to leave you by yourself.” he admits, reaching over to hold your hand. “fair enough” you say quiet. “are you upset with me now?” he questions, looking a little alarmed. “no, it’s ok, honestly i get it” you sigh. patrick pulls you into his arms holding you close. “sorry, didn’t mean for this to turn into me hurting your feelings, i just wanted to check in” he consoles, tracing his fingers up and down your back. “i’m ok, don’t worry” you pull back, smiling.
but you were starting to feel a little more worried. you two had been officially together for a little over a week and were already starting to have issues. even if it seemed minor and manageable, how would things be going forward, barely seeing each other. while you could recall having doubts about the long distance thing, you could barely remember the argument the night before.
you just kept trying to rationalize. you had fought so long to push aside your feelings for patrick beforehand, surely now that you two talked about everything and were together it would be fine. the rest of the week you spent as much time as you could with patrick, anxiously awaiting the last day you’d have with him until god knows how long.
patrick offered to drive you back on the last day, it worked out perfectly since he had a tournament the following day a few hours away from stanford, and it meant a little more time with him instead of enduring a torturous drive with your parents. you ended up giving him a stanford keychain for a christmas gift, as a 'good luck' charm for when he's on the road. it was small but patrick was more than appreciative about it and to him it meant he'd have a small piece of you with him no matter how far away he was.
despite the drive being incredibly long, it didn't feel long enough, the nerves intensified as you two made it closer and closer to california. you told yourself you wouldn't cry which in hindsight was stupid, considering how much time you had spent crying before even packing your bags. patrick helped carry all your bags into the dorm, helping you unpack and staying with you for a few hours before he had to leave. you were tangled in a hug, holding tightly as he stood at your door. "i might be able to stay for a day or two next weekend, but after that it might be awhile" he says low. "ok ok" you mumble. "i'll text you when i get to my hotel, no, i'll call you" he corrects, breaking the hug looking down at you with a weak smile. "sounds good, i'm gonna try and arrange a lunch with art to finally talk, hopefully he's ready" you say shaken. "i'm sure he is and i'm sure everything will be ok, you can call me while i'm driving if you need to though, ok?" he comforts. "ok, please drive safe" your voice is already cracking as you reach up to tangle him in a kiss. it's bittersweet, not wanting it to end but knowing he has to get going. the kiss turns into a hug, "i love you" he whispers, "i love you too" you tremble. "ok no more crying, you won't have any tears left," he jokes, reaching in his pocket to grab his keys "call me if you need me" he adds. you exchange goodbyes, and another long hug before you finally let him leave. as he walks out the door he kisses his good luck charm he had attached to his lanyard immediately after you gave it to him.
you spent some time being upset and pulled yourself together. you started to try and get organized again, familiarizing yourself with your new schedule, cleaning up the mess that had accumulated from unpacking. while cleaning you started to notice bits and pieces of art scattered around the dorm. a stray sock, a few shirts, a pair of boxers. it was time to put your foot down, obviously art didn't owe you anything but regardless the conversation needed to happen. it had been 2 weeks.
you:
hey, not sure if your back yet but can we talk please
if you're not busy
i have some of your stuff here
6:02 PM
art:
yeah i have some of you're stuff here too, im available now but i have plans at 7
i can come by your dorm shortly
6:05 PM
you:
ok sounds good
6:06 PM
knock knock
it was almost 6:30 when art arrived. you had spent the time pacing around, gathering his things, riddled with anxiety.
you opened the door revealing art clutching a small bag with what was probably your stuff. "hey." you give a nervous smile, opening the door to let him in. "hey" he replies, walking in and setting the bag down on the table "so, i've spent a lot of time cooling off, just- processing i guess, and i'm sorry for kicking you out like that i just- was really fucking hurt and confused" he sighs, leaning against the wall. "art, you shouldn't apologize, i understand, what i did was fucked up" your voice is shaken. "yeah it was fucked up but it was shitty for me to leave you with no way home, i mean, how did you get home?" he asks. "well," you pause, worried about how it'd make him feel knowing it was- "patrick?" he finished for you. you nod, fiddling with your hands. "that's fine, glad you made it home safe at least." he sighs again, nervously rubbing his neck "i'm just- can you explain this to me? like how and why this all happened?"
you let out a shaken exhale "we- we were seeing eachother for awhile last year, never put a label on it or told anybody. patrick he- we just..." you hesitate "we would talk about things we didn't feel comfortable saying out loud i guess and it felt really special." you're stumbling on your words, in between sentences looking up at art to observe his expression which seemed weirdly composed. "i wanted it to be public but he was hesitant about it for some reason and i-... it just got to the point where i wasn't ok with that and ended things before graduation." you finish, sighing. arts looking to you like he's waiting for more "ok." he replies, a short silence following. "well um, the start of the semester me and you started hanging out and by then i thought i was over patrick and spending time with you was- well i felt happy again, ready to move on" you continue, eyes still flicking between the floor and him. he crosses his arms "right ok. just skip to the part where you cheat on me" he says, still maintaining a calm voice which makes it feel more unsettling. "art." you frown, "no- it's fine! because i- i cheated on you too." he shoots back. your heart sinks, breath catching in your throat "w-what?" you say quiet. "yeah, i fucked tashi." he replies, looking straight at you with a blank face. your gaze falters, feeling a lump in your throat form as you speak "i- i don't know what to say" you choke. "then don't. you cheated on me, i cheated on you. we're even." art says, fixing his posture to stand straight.
its quiet for a moment as you process his words, in the corner of your eye you see his figure moving, he's walking toward the door. "art. sit down." you say firm, voice cracking as your tear filled eyes are wide. to be pissed at him would be hypocritical, but it still stings, and for the past 2 weeks you have had many sleepless nights anticipating this conversation with him, you were not gonna let it end like this. "i don't care how messy this gets, i fucking care about you, i hate that i hurt you, we are having this conversation" you cry, more so frustrated than upset. the situation in its entirety had been draining for all parties involved.
you grab his arm and pull him further into your dorm, pulling out the chair from your desk. he's quiet, but he nods and sits down. you back up and lean against your bed across from him. "yes art, i cheated on you. i kissed patrick at that party and i knew it was wrong so i told him to fuck off. i wish it didn't happen so i tried to pretend like it didn't, and then he came to my dorm the night after and we had sex. i told you that during holiday break." you say harsh. you feel angry, unjustifiably, but after months of swallowing your feelings and holding them back, you needed this. art just sits and listens, looking at the floor. "art. i care about you, hell, i love you even. what i did was fucking awful but back when this happened, i- i thought i was saving our relationship by trying to forget about patrick all together, but, ignoring what i felt for him only made it worse, and i am so fucking sorry that i put you in the middle of it art." you ramble, finally starting to crack as your voice continues to shake and your emotions spill from you.
he looks hurt, his face is red. you were probably too harsh looking back but hearing that he had cheated on you too just flipped the switch, and you were already emotional since 2 hours ago you and patrick officially started long distance. tears are streaming down your face as you choke back your emotions. he looks up at you, eyes fluttering "i uh," his voice cracks and he clears his throat "i- just- why?" he stutters. you feel helpless, you want to give art the closure he needs and honestly the closure you need too "art- i just told you" you cry. "no- why him, w-why patrick? i mean, he's a fucking dick" art stammers, looking at you concerned. "because i- i love him ok w-" he cuts you off "no, this- he clearly treated you like shit, treated tashi like shit, he’s awful to women yet still gets whoever he wants it- its fucked up" he raises his voice, sitting up in his chair. "art no, you don't understand, what me and patrick have is-" he again cuts you off "it's what? it's what?!" he pressed. "it's different, it's deeper than any relationship either of us have had. h- he knows me" you huff, sniffling between words. "what and- and i don't?" he stands up, voice full of hurt. "not fully.. but t-that's my fault, not yours" your heart is pounding, breathing heavy. "i- i don't understand. what don't i know about you" he says with a pleading tone and walks closer. you squeeze your eyes shut, trying so hard to stifle your sobs. after a long silence broken up with mutual sniffles, you sit on your bed and sigh "i- hate tennis" you manically laugh, recognizing how stupid it sounds to start it off like that. "my home life is shit, my parents care more about my tennis than me. it’s the only reason i play anymore at this point” you admit, your voice congested.
you force a weak smile to choke back the hurt that overwhelmed you. "patrick is the only person who i've felt comfortable telling about this. he- he's the only one who understands" you add. art is stood in front of you, face burning red with tears stained on his cheeks. he says your name low, "i-im sorry". you laugh "it's not your fault, none of what has happened is. i mean, really i don't even blame you for cheating on me" you reply looking up at him. "i just- felt trapped. patrick sees me like nobody else can and with parents like mine- it's nice to feel seen, understood. but it isn't an excuse though, im sorry." you say weak, wiping your face and inhaling deep. "earlier when you- you said you loved me?" he questions. "i meant it art, i do love you, i mean why do you think i called you at 2am on new years” you laugh lighthearted “i just- don't think it's in a romantic way. you are important to me though, and im sorry i put you through this" you assure. he nods and sits on the bed next to you. "why didn't you feel comfortable telling me about you parents? i mean- we were dating." he asks quiet and shaken. "don't take it personally, it's not something i've felt comfortable telling anybody really. after awhile it just became something i learned to silently deal with" you admit, sniffling still. art hums and nods in response.
it's quiet for awhile, your gaze stuck on the floor until you decide to break the silence "so, when did you and tashi sleep together?" you turn to look at him. you can see the remorse in his eyes "a few weeks before the break." he admits, quickly looking down at his lap and picking at his skin. "she had been torn up about patrick still and- you were distant and, it just kinda happened." he adds, hesitantly looking back at you. "i feel like i should admit that i- uh- guess i never really got over what happened at the open". you nod "i had a feeling." you reply, arts eyes widen a bit. "just from the way you talked about it, and how pissed off you were when you told me about them breaking up." you add clearing your throat. your eyes wander around the room "i think i was just too fixated on patrick and the guilt i felt, to let that bother me". "oh. ok" he replies nodding. you can tell that despite everything that happened, art feels horrible for doing it, for cheating on you. "i don't blame you, i don't. and i can't apologize enough for all this." the waterworks come again, your eyes flutter and your voice breaks "but again, i care about you. i hope we can eventually be friends, i want you in my life still.". arts lip trembles, biting it to stable himself "i- i don't know, i need some time ok? i'm sorry" he shakes. "no i understand" your tears intensify, breath catching in your throat.
his phone buzzes, and he snaps out of it, "ah- shit" he reaches in his pocket to grab his phone, checking the time and reading the message. "shit i- i'm sorry but i've gotta go." he huffs, "i'm um, meeting tashi" he wipes his face with both hands and gets up. "o-ok, no that's fine." you reply, getting up after him to give him the bag full of his things. "thank you, for talking to me" you smile through the tears, he’s stood in the door way. he nods with a weak smile "bye" his voice breaks, walking out the door and closing it gently behind him.
you dial patrick's number, sobbing into the phone before he even picks up.
after a few rings he answers "hey you, i'm almost at the hotel, what's up?" he shouts over his music. you try to speak but you don't even know where to start, mustering up quiet sobs and whines "i-". he turns the radio down, "what's wrong babe?" he says concerned. "art and i- just talked" you heave. "shit did it not go well?" he asks. "no it- i- i don't know" you stutter "patrick he- cheated on me too". "wait what?!" he shouts. "i'm not mad at him but- still, i’m kinda hurt" your cries make you sound almost incoherent, "hey, just take your time ok, let yourself calm down" he comforts.
so you do, closing your eyes to steady your breathing, swallowing the emotions until you feel calm enough to form a sentence without breaking. patrick patiently waits. once you've collected yourself you start explaining it all, not in great order and still with a slightly shaken voice. "with tashi? jesus. are you ok?" he asks. "i don't know. im not pissed at him for that, but things got heated fast and it was very emotional." you reply. your voice is raspy and burnt out. "from what you told me i think things will be ok though, no? i'm sure he's hurt but, sounds like he's coming around." you can hear his car coming to a stop. "maybe, i hope so." you say weak "are you at the hotel now?". "yeah just pulled in." he replies. "oh ok. want me to let you go?" you ask quietly. "no, talk to me. i don't mind" he says quick, you smile big.
you and patrick keep chatting for awhile, eventually you insisted on letting him hang up to get sorted in to his hotel room, only for him to call you back 10 minutes later saying "i have all night, talk to me". after talking on the phone for another hour you were feeling a lot better about everything, that lingering feeling of unease finally subsiding. it was getting late, you were feeling tired, and you could tell patrick was aswell—he had to have been from driving all day long—so you let the call come to an end. "i already miss you." he says low "me too" you reply yawning. "patrick?" you ask, "what's up?" he chuckles. "i- im scared" you say nervously. "about what?" he responds, tone more alert. "this. the long distance stuff. like, really fucking scared" you answer. "that's ok. i’m nervous too. can we talk about it?” his voice is calm. “ok, yeah. uhm-“ you shudder “what exactly do we talk about” you laugh a little. “what are you afraid of?” he asks.
a simple question, one you felt like you couldn’t answer on the spot. you spent hours, days even, overthinking this yet you struggle to answer. what were you afraid of? “i- what if it doesn’t work” you hesitate. “how would it not work” he asks. it’s like he knows you weren’t being rational about the whole thing, then again you had repeated ‘what if it doesn’t work’ to him like 3 times already. “like- what if we fight or something” you answer. “then we’ll talk through it, like we usually do.” he responds, maintaining a steady voice “i mean this probably won’t be easy right? we can figure it out as we go” he consoles. “you’re right, i’m sorry” you sniffle. “you’ve apologized a lot recently haven’t you” he chuckles. “yeahh.” you laugh. “patrick? you’re nervous too? about this?” you question. “yes” he responds. “what are you nervous about?” you anxiously add. “remember when i told you about the argument from new years? how you said ive given you false hope before?” he asks. “that. that’s what im nervous about. i really don’t want to hurt you anymore” he admits, tone shifting more quiet. “you won’t.” you say quick, starting to feel emotional again. “if you say so” his voice dances, trying to lighten the mood, which only helps a little. “i miss you.” you repeat. “i know, i do too.” he responds. "don't forget about the notebook. you have that, i have my little keychain thing, and we have this" he assures, you laugh with teary eyes "ok, perfect.". "get some sleep, ok? i'll call you in the morning" he chuckles. "ok, i love you" you say with a big smile and although he can't see it he can definitely hear it in your voice. "i love you too, goodnight" he replies.
this is still mainly abt patrick and reader but i added in that much needed talk w art and him revealing he cheated too. also im realizing now i didnt imply it enough but i feel like eventually art and reader become ok again, platonically ofc :p
summary: art donaldson is twenty-one and dying, and you meet him on a tuesday that tastes like antiseptic and defeat.
word count: 12.7k
cw: major character death, terminal illness (leukemia and lupus), medical settings, grief, chronic pain, emotional trauma, slow decline, hospital setting
notes: wow. okay. so. it’s much harder to write while sobbing than i thought. this ruined me. like, truly, gutturally ripped my heart out. AND I’M THE FUCKING AUTHOR??? LIKE WHAT??? WHAT ARE Y’ALL ABOUT TO PUT YOURSELVES THROUGH??????? anyways… obviously this will contain heavy angst, so if you aren’t in the right headspace to read that, i recommend you skip this one for your own well-being ♡ i also highly recommend looping this song while you read! it makes for an immersive experience. okay, i’ll shut up now. enjoy :)
The oncology wing smells like a lie. They pump it full of that industrial-strength air freshener—something floral, something synthetic, something that's supposed to mask the rot—but it doesn't work. Nothing works. You can still smell it underneath: the decay, the fear, the way bodies break down when they're not supposed to, when you're twenty-three and your joints are already grinding themselves to dust, when your immune system has decided you're the enemy.
The lupus came for you like a thief in the night, crept up on you during your senior year of college, stole your morning runs and your dance classes and your ability to open a fucking jar without your hands screaming. Now you're here, in this purgatory of beeping machines and fluorescent lights that never sleep, getting another round of bloodwork that'll probably just confirm what you already know: your body hates you.
That's when you see him. Art Donaldson, slumped in one of those horrible vinyl chairs that squeak every time you shift, the kind that stick to your skin in summer and freeze you solid in winter. He's got an IV line snaking out of his left arm, taped down with that medical tape that leaves residue, and he's staring at his phone like it's personally offended him.
Even sick—Christ, especially sick—he's devastating to look at. All sharp jawline and hollow cheeks, that particular brand of beautiful that college athletes carry like a birthright, except the leukemia has bleached him out, turned his tan to something closer to parchment. His hair is still there, though thinner than it probably used to be, that dirty blond that catches the awful fluorescent light, and when he shifts in his seat you can see the way his Stanford Tennis t-shirt hangs off him like he's borrowed it from someone three sizes bigger. He wasn't always this small, you can tell. You can see the ghost of who he used to be in the slope of his shoulders, the length of his legs, the way his fingers curl around his phone like they're remembering the grip of a racket.
You don't mean to stare, but you do, because there's something magnetic about grief, about watching someone else crumble in real-time when you're doing the same thing in slow motion.
Your nurse—Patricia, the one with the kind eyes and the no-bullshit attitude—follows your gaze and makes a small noise in the back of her throat. "That's Art," she says, quiet enough that it feels like a secret, like she's letting you in on something. "He's been here a while. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Aggressive. He was supposed to go pro, tennis. Had scouts and everything." The way she says it makes your chest hurt, that particular ache that comes from recognizing your own story in someone else's body. You were supposed to do things too—grad school, maybe law, definitely something that involved your body not betraying you before you hit twenty-five. But here you are, and there he is, and isn't that just the fucking tragedy of it all.
He looks up then, like he can feel you watching, and his eyes are this impossible shade of bluish-grey, the kind of eyes that probably got him out of trouble his whole life, that probably made girls stupid and boys jealous. They land on you and something shifts in his expression—not quite a smile, not quite recognition, but something. Acknowledgment, maybe. The kind of look that says: Oh, you too? You're one of us? Welcome to hell, population: everyone in this goddamn wing
You don't look away, even though every instinct tells you to, even though it feels too intimate, this moment of shared understanding between two people whose bodies have declared war on themselves. Patricia finishes with your IV port, gives your shoulder a squeeze that's probably supposed to be comforting, and then you're alone with your bag of fluids and your racing heart and the boy across the room who looks like he's already half-gone.
The thing about hospitals is that they strip you down to your most basic self. There's no pretense here, no carefully curated social media presence, no putting on your best face. You're sick, and everyone knows it, and there's something almost freeing in that honesty even as it's devastating. You watch Art shift in his chair, wince slightly like the movement costs him something, and then he does something you don't expect: he nods at you. Not a big gesture, nothing dramatic, just a small dip of his chin that might as well be a white flag. You nod back, your own small surrender, and just like that you've made a friend in the trenches. Or maybe not a friend—maybe something else entirely, something that doesn't have a name yet, something that only exists in places like this where everyone is too tired to lie.
An hour passes, maybe two—time moves differently here, stretches and contracts like it's as sick as the rest of you—and then he speaks. His voice is rough, underused, like he hasn't talked to anyone in days and maybe he hasn't.
"First time?" he asks, and there's something almost wry in it, some edge of dark humor that you immediately understand. You could play dumb, could ask him what he means, but you don't. You know exactly what he's asking.
"Third week," you answer, and your own voice sounds strange to your ears, too small for the fluorescent vastness of this place. "You?"
He huffs out something that might be a laugh if it didn't sound so much like sandpaper. "Month six," he says, and the weight of those words settles between you like a stone. Six months. Half a year of this. You can't even imagine it, except you can, except you're probably headed there yourself if the doctors are right, if the treatment plan they've outlined is anything to go by.
"Jesus," you breathe out, and it's not quite a prayer but it's close.
He shrugs, or tries to—the movement is aborted halfway through, like his body can't quite commit to the casual gesture anymore. "Yeah, well. Turns out leukemia doesn't give a shit about your serve speed or your college ranking." There's bitterness there, corrosive and sharp, the kind that comes from having your entire future ripped away while you were still reaching for it. You get it, God, do you get it. You'd had plans too, a whole life mapped out in your head, and then your body decided to rewrite the script without asking permission.
"Lupus," you offer, because it feels like a trade, this exchange of diagnoses like baseball cards. "The doctors keep using words like 'manageable' and 'chronic' like that's supposed to be comforting."
He actually smiles at that, small and bitter and somehow still beautiful. "Manageable," he repeats, testing the word like it's in a foreign language. "Yeah, they love that one. Also 'aggressive treatment' and 'we'll do everything we can,' which is code for 'we're throwing shit at the wall and hoping something sticks.'"
The honesty is brutal, refreshing, necessary. You're so fucking tired of people tiptoeing around you, of the careful optimism your parents force into their voices, of your friends who don't know what to say so they say nothing at all or worse, everything, filling the silence with meaningless platitudes about staying positive and fighting hard as if cancer gives a single fuck about your attitude.
But Art—Art doesn't do that. He looks at you like you're both standing in the wreckage of your lives and there's no point in pretending the house isn't on fire.
"You still in school?" he asks, and you notice the way his fingers keep flexing, restless, like they're looking for something to grip.
"Was," you say. "Had to take medical leave. I was doing pre-law, which feels hilarious now. Like, who the fuck was I kidding?"
He nods slowly, understanding written all over his gaunt face. "I was supposed to graduate this year. Already had my spot lined up—was going to defer going pro for a year, get my degree, make my parents happy. Then my blood work came back fucked, and suddenly none of that mattered."
There's a long pause where neither of you speaks, where the only sound is the steady drip of your IVs and the distant beeping of someone else's monitor, someone else's crisis. You watch the way the light catches on the fluid running into his arm, clear and clinical and keeping him alive in the most mechanical sense.
"Do you miss it?" you ask finally, even though you already know the answer. "Tennis?"
His jaw tightens, and for a second you think you've overstepped, pushed too hard too fast, but then he exhales slowly. "Every fucking day. It's like—it's like losing a limb, except the limb was your entire identity. I've been playing since I was seven. My mom used to drive me to practice at five in the morning before school. I had this serve, this thing I'd been perfecting for years, and now I can barely make it to the bathroom without getting winded." The rawness in his voice splits you open, makes your own throat tight.
"I used to run," you tell him, and it feels like a confession. "Nothing serious, not like you, but I loved it. That feeling of your body doing exactly what you asked it to do, you know? And now I wake up and my joints are so stiff I can't make a fist for the first hour. It's like being trapped in someone else's body, someone old and broken."
"Yeah," he says quietly, and that single word holds so much weight it could sink ships. "Yeah, exactly like that."
His eyes meet yours again, and this time there's something different in them, something that looks almost like relief. Like he's been drowning and you just threw him a rope, even though you're drowning too, even though neither of you can save the other. But maybe that's not the point. Maybe the point is just not drowning alone.
"I'm Art, by the way," he says, and it's so absurdly formal given the circumstances that you almost laugh.
"I know," you admit. "Patricia told me. The nurse."
He raises an eyebrow, and there's a ghost of his former charm in the expression, that cocky athlete charisma that probably had people falling all over themselves. "Talking about me, huh? Should I be flattered or concerned?"
You do laugh then, a small huff of air that feels foreign in your chest. "Flattered, probably. She said you were supposed to go pro. Said you had scouts."
Something in his face shutters at that, the brief moment of levity evaporating like steam. "Had," he emphasizes, and the past tense is a knife. "Now I've got a port in my chest and a countdown clock I can't see but can definitely feel."
The words hang between you, brutal and true, and you don't try to soften them because what would be the point? "I'm sorry," you say, and you mean it, even though sorry is the most useless word in the English language, even though it can't change anything or fix anything or bring back what he's lost.
He waves it off with those restless fingers. "Don't be. Not your fault my bone marrow decided to stage a coup." Then, after a beat: "What's your name? Figure if we're gonna be miserable together we should at least know what to call each other."
You tell him, and he repeats it slowly, like he's testing how it sounds, how it fits in his mouth. "Okay," he says, nodding to himself. "Okay, good. Nice to meet you, I guess, even though this is literally the worst possible place to meet anyone."
"Agreed," you say, and you find yourself almost smiling despite everything, despite the IV in your arm and the ache in your bones and the boy across from you who looks like he's being erased in slow motion. "But I guess we work with what we've got."
He snorts, shakes his head, and for just a second—just one brief, shining second—he looks young again, looks like the college kid he's supposed to be instead of someone's terminal diagnosis. "Work with what we've got," he echoes. "Jesus Christ, is that what we're calling this nightmare now?"
You shrug, or try to, mimicking his earlier aborted gesture. "Beats the alternative. Which is, what, sitting here in silence pretending we're not both falling apart?"
He considers this, his head tilting slightly, and then he grins. It's not a happy grin—there's too much darkness in it, too much knowledge of what's coming—but it's real. "Fair point," he concedes. "Alright then. Let's be miserable together. At least that way it's not quite so fucking lonely."
And just like that, without ceremony or fanfare, you've made a pact. Two people whose bodies are betraying them, who've had their futures stolen, who understand that sometimes the only thing you can do is hold on and hope the fall doesn't kill you before you hit the ground. You settle back in your chair, feeling the vinyl stick to your skin through your thin hospital gown, and watch as Art does the same. The silence that falls now is different—not empty, but full, heavy with understanding and shared misery and something that might, in another life, have been the beginning of something good. But this isn't another life. This is this life, and it's brutal and unfair and probably won't end well for either of you. Still, when Art catches your eye again and offers that small, broken smile, you find yourself smiling back. Because what else is there to do? You're here, he's here, and for now—for right now—that has to be enough.
⸻
The first time you see Art's room, it's because he's too weak to make it to the infusion center and they've brought his chemo to him instead. Patricia mentions it in passing—"Art's having a rough day, they've got him on the heavy stuff"—and something in your chest tightens at the casual way she says it, like this is normal, like everyone's worst day is just another Tuesday in the oncology wing.
You've been here two months now, long enough that the nurses know your name without checking their charts, long enough that you've memorized the pattern of stains on the ceiling tiles above your usual chair. Long enough that seeing Art has become the only thing that makes these visits bearable, his dark humor and his bitter honesty and the way he looks at you like you're both in on the same terrible joke.
You shouldn't go to his room. You know this. There are protocols, boundaries, the invisible lines that separate patients from each other even as you're all drowning in the same pool.
But your infusion finishes and your hands won't stop shaking—not from the lupus, not today, but from something else, something that feels dangerously close to caring about whether Art is okay or not. So you find yourself in the hallway, following the room numbers like breadcrumbs, until you're standing outside 304 with your heart doing something complicated and painful in your chest. The door is half-open, and you can hear the steady beep of monitors, the low murmur of a nurse's voice, and underneath it all, nothing. No response from Art, no witty comeback, no rough laugh. Just silence, and somehow that's worse than anything else could be.
You knock anyway, soft enough that it's barely a sound, and push the door open wider. The room is exactly like every other room in this wing—institutional beige walls, linoleum floors that squeak under your shoes, that same horrible fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look half-dead even when they're not. But Art is in the bed, and Christ, he looks small. Smaller than he did in the infusion center, smaller than someone his height should ever look, swallowed up by white sheets and white blankets and the white hospital gown that ties at his too-thin neck.
There's an IV pole next to him with multiple bags hanging like a goddamn Christmas tree of poison, each one pumping something different into his body, and you can see the port in his chest where his gown has shifted, the skin around it red and angry. His eyes are closed, his face turned toward the window even though the blinds are drawn, and for one terrible moment you think you've made a mistake coming here, that you're intruding on something private, something meant to be suffered alone.
But then he speaks without opening his eyes, his voice barely more than a whisper. "If you're here to tell me to stay positive, you can fuck right off." The words should be harsh but they come out exhausted, worn down to nothing, and you feel something crack in your chest.
"Good thing I'm not, then," you say, and his eyes open slowly, like even that small movement costs him everything. When he focuses on you, there's surprise there first, then something that might be relief, then something else entirely—something vulnerable and raw that makes you want to look away except you can't, you won't.
"You came," he says, and it's not quite a question.
"Patricia said you were having a bad day," you tell him, staying near the door because you're not sure if you're welcome further in, not sure what the rules are for this. "Figured you could use some company. Or not. I can go if—"
"Stay," he interrupts, and the word comes out too fast, too desperate, before he can coat it in casual indifference. "Please. It's just been me and the fucking ceiling tiles for six hours and I'm losing my mind."
So you stay. You drag the visitor's chair closer to his bed—it's the same vinyl as the ones in the infusion center, because apparently hospitals only have one supplier and they chose the most uncomfortable option possible—and settle in, your own body protesting the movement with sharp jabs of pain that you've learned to breathe through. Art watches you with those blue eyes, tracking the way you move, and you know he's cataloging your pain the same way you're cataloging his. It's what you do now, you and him, this constant assessment of who's worse off on any given day, though you'd never say it out loud.
"What flavor are they pumping into you today?" you ask, nodding toward the IV bags, and he huffs out something that's almost a laugh.
"The fun kind. Cytarabine and daunorubicin, in case you were wondering. They're tag-teaming my bone marrow, real aggressive-like. My oncologist keeps using the word 'consolidation' like I'm a fucking corporate merger."
You wince in sympathy, and he sees it, appreciates it. "Sounds absolutely terrible," you offer, and he nods slowly.
"It is. I threw up twice already and we're only three hours in. Got another five to go on this bag, then they'll switch to the next one, and somewhere around hour eight I'll probably forget my own name."
The honesty is brutal, but that's what you've built between you—this foundation of brutal honesty, of not sugar-coating the nightmare because what would be the point. You sit in silence for a while, listening to the machines beep and whir, watching the way the afternoon light tries to sneak through the gaps in the blinds and fails. Art's hand is on top of the blanket, pale and skeletal, his fingers still doing that restless thing they do, and without thinking about it too hard you reach over and cover his hand with yours. He goes still immediately, like you've startled him, and you almost pull back—but then his fingers curl around yours, gripping tight enough that you can feel the bones of his hand, the tendons standing out in sharp relief.
"Tell me something," he says after a long moment, his eyes fixed on where your hands are joined. "Tell me something that has nothing to do with hospitals or treatments or blood counts. Tell me about before."
Before. The word sits between you like a ghost, like a photograph of people you used to be, people who had bodies that worked and futures that stretched out like highways. "Before," you repeat, tasting the word, trying to remember what that even means. "I used to go to this coffee shop near campus every Tuesday and Thursday morning. Had the same order every time—iced vanilla latte with oat milk. The barista knew my name, had it written on my cup before I even got to the counter. I'd sit in this corner booth and do my reading for class, and I was always so stressed about grades, about internships, about building the perfect resume." You laugh, but it's hollow. "I'd give anything to have those problems again. I'd give anything to be stressed about a fucking midterm instead of whether my kidneys are going to fail." Art's grip on your hand tightens, and when you look at him his eyes are closed again but there's something in his expression—understanding, solidarity, shared grief for the people you used to be.
"I had this rival," he says suddenly, his voice soft and far away, like he's talking from the bottom of a well. "David Chen. We came up through juniors together, played each other a hundred times, pushed each other to be better. He was—fuck, he was good. Better than me some days, worse than me on others, but always there, always this constant presence. We were supposed to play each other in the NCAA finals this year. I had this whole speech planned in my head for after I beat him, something about how he made me better, how the rivalry was the best thing that ever happened to my game." He opens his eyes, and they're wet, shining in the terrible fluorescent light. "He came to visit me once, right after my diagnosis. Couldn't even look me in the eye. Just stood there by the door making these awful platitudes about how I'd beat this, how I was a fighter, all that bullshit. Then he left and I haven't heard from him since." The pain in his voice is physical, a living thing, and you squeeze his hand harder.
"People don't know what to do with us," you say quietly, and it's the truth you've been living with for months now. "We're too real, too uncomfortable. We remind them that bad things happen to young people, that you can do everything right and still lose. It's easier for them to just... not deal with it."
Art nods, a single tear escaping down his temple, disappearing into his hair. "Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah, that's exactly it. My parents come every week, and I love them, but I can see how hard it is for them. My mom brings me food I can't eat because the chemo makes everything taste like metal, and my dad talks about what I'll do when I'm better like there's any guarantee I'm going to be better. They mean well, but it's like they're talking to a version of me that doesn't exist anymore."
You don't say anything to that because what is there to say? Instead you just sit there, holding his hand, being present in the way that no one else seems to be able to manage. Being willing to look directly at the horror of it instead of trying to dress it up in hope and positivity and other lies.
Eventually Art's breathing evens out into something that might be sleep, though it's fitful, his face twitching with discomfort even in unconsciousness. You should leave, should go home and rest your own battered body, but you don't. You stay in that uncomfortable vinyl chair, your hand in his, watching the poison drip into his veins and trying not to think about what comes next. A nurse comes in once to check his vitals, sees you there and just nods, doesn't ask you to leave, doesn't question why you're holding the hand of a boy you barely know. Maybe she understands, or maybe she's just seen too much death to care about hospital protocol. Either way, you're grateful for the silent permission to stay.
The afternoon bleeds into evening, the light through the blinds going from gray to darker gray, and still you sit. Still you hold on. Still you bear witness to Art's suffering because someone should, because he shouldn't have to do this alone. After all, you understand in a way that no one else in his life can.
When visiting hours officially end, Patricia pokes her head in and catches your eye. She gives you a look that's half reproach, half understanding, and mouths "ten more minutes" before disappearing again. Art stirs at the sound, his eyes cracking open, unfocused and glassy from whatever pain medication they've added to his cocktail.
"You're still here," he mumbles, and there's wonder in it, like he can't quite believe it.
"Yeah," you tell him simply. "I'm still here." He tries to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace.
"Doesn't make sense. You've got your own shit to deal with. You don't need to sit here watching me fall apart."
You shake your head, and your own eyes are burning now, hot and tight with tears you refuse to let fall. "Maybe I need to," you say. "Maybe it helps, knowing I'm not the only one. Maybe we're helping each other." He considers this through his haze of pain and medication, his thumb moving absently across your knuckles.
"Maybe," he concedes. "Or maybe we're just two disasters finding comfort in shared misery." You smile despite everything, despite the horror of where you are and what you're facing. "That too," you agree.
When you finally leave, your hand feels cold without his, empty in a way that has nothing to do with the lupus eating away at your joints. You walk through the hospital corridors in a daze, past the other patients in their rooms, past the nurses' station where Patricia gives you a knowing look, past the elevator that smells like bleach and broken dreams. And when you get to your car, you sit in the driver's seat for a long time, your hands on the steering wheel, and let yourself cry. Not for yourself this time, but for Art. For the tennis player who will never play again, for the college kid who might not make it to graduation, for the boy with beautiful blue eyes who's being erased one chemo session at a time. You cry until you're empty, until there's nothing left, and then you drive home in silence, the radio off, the world dark and indifferent around you.
⸻
The thing about dying slowly is that it gives you time to get used to the idea. Not that you ever really get used to it—how could you, when your body is literally consuming itself, when every day brings some new fresh hell—but there's a kind of numb acceptance that settles in after a while. You stop being shocked by the bad news, stop being surprised when things get worse instead of better, stop hoping for miracles because hope is just another word for setting yourself up for disappointment. Art is already there, has been there since long before you met him, and you're learning the territory from him, following the map he's drawn with his bitter humor and his brutal honesty.
It's week three of knowing him when you start spending more time in his room than in the infusion center. Your treatment schedule doesn't always line up with his anymore—they've changed his protocol twice now, throwing different combinations of drugs at the leukemia like they're playing chemical roulette—but you come anyway, bringing your own IV pole like a fucked-up security blanket, parking yourself in that vinyl chair that's started to feel like yours.
The nurses don't comment on it anymore, have stopped questioning why you're always in 304 instead of where you're supposed to be. Maybe they understand that sometimes the best medicine isn't in a bag hanging from a pole, or maybe they just don't have the energy to enforce rules that don't really matter in the grand scheme of things. Either way, you're grateful for the silent permission to exist in Art's space, to be the witness he needs even when he pretends he doesn't.
He talks more now, when the chemo isn't completely wrecking him, and you learn things about him in fragments, in pieces scattered between bouts of nausea and pain. He tells you about growing up in New Rochelle, about his grandmother who taught him to play chess, about the first time he picked up a tennis racket at seven years old and felt something click into place in his chest like recognition. "It was like I'd been looking for something my whole life and suddenly there it was," he says one afternoon, his voice dreamy with painkillers but still sharp with memory. "This perfect thing that made sense when nothing else did. My parents were fighting all the time back then, and school was boring, and I didn't really fit in with the other kids. But on the court? On the court I knew exactly who I was." His eyes are distant, fixed on something you can't see, some ghost of his former self. "I was good at it too, like scary good. Started winning tournaments by the time I was nine, had coaches telling my parents I could be special if I worked hard enough."
You listen, curled up in your chair with your knees pulled to your chest—a position that makes your joints scream but feels necessary somehow, like you need to make yourself smaller to fit into his memories with him. "Did you?" you ask. "Work hard enough?"
He laughs, but it turns into a cough halfway through, wet and rattling, and you have to watch him struggle through it, watch him spit into the plastic basin they keep on his bedside table. When he catches his breath, his face is flushed and his eyes are watering, but he's smiling anyway, that broken beautiful smile that kills you every time. "Fuck yes, I worked hard," he says when he can speak again. "I lived on the court. Four, five hours a day minimum, more during summers and school breaks. I gave up everything for tennis—parties, relationships, anything that might distract me from the goal. I was going to be the best, you know? That was the plan. Professional tennis player by twenty-two, Grand Slam champion by twenty-five. I had it all mapped out."
The past tense is a violence, and you both feel it hanging in the air between you like smoke. "I'm sorry," you say, because what else is there? Sorry is useless, sorry can't give him back his serve or his strength or his future, but it's all you have.
He waves it off, that restless hand moving through the air like he's swatting at invisible flies. "Don't be sorry. Be pissed off. That's what I am—just fucking furious all the time that this is what I get. Twenty-one years old and my body just decides to stage a rebellion, starts making all these fucked-up white blood cells that don't work, and suddenly everything I built is just... gone." His voice cracks on the last word, and you watch him struggle to hold it together, watch him blink rapidly against tears that he won't let fall. "I should be at practice right now," he continues, quieter now, more to himself than to you. "Should be working on my backhand, running drills, preparing for the season. Instead I'm here, pissing into a bedpan because I'm too weak to walk to the bathroom, letting poison drip into my veins and hoping it kills the cancer before it kills me."
The rawness of it steals your breath, makes your own eyes burn with sympathy tears you have no right to cry. "Tell me about your best match," you say suddenly, desperately needing to take him somewhere else, somewhere better, even if it's just in memory. "Your favorite one. The one that felt like everything you'd worked for was worth it."
Art's expression shifts at that, something softening in his face, and he settles back against his pillows with a small sigh. "Junior year," he says immediately. "NCAA tournament, semifinal round. I was playing this kid from Duke, tall guy with a killer serve, everyone said he was going to destroy me. And for the first set, he did—I couldn't return anything, kept getting aced left and right, lost it six-two. But then something clicked." His eyes are far away again, but there's light in them now, animation that makes him look almost healthy for a moment. "I figured out his pattern, the way he telegraphed where the serve was going with his toss. Once I had that, I had him. Came back and took the next three sets, and by the end he was so frustrated he was double-faulting every other point."
You can see it as he describes it—Art on the court, healthy and strong and perfect, doing what he was born to do. The image hurts, but it's a good hurt, the kind of pain that comes from being allowed to touch something beautiful. "The crowd was losing their minds," he continues, and there's wonder in his voice now, pure and undiluted. "I could hear people chanting my name, could feel the energy of it, and when I hit the winning shot—this perfect cross-court forehand that he couldn't even touch—I just... I felt invincible. Like nothing could stop me, like I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to do." He turns his head to look at you then, and his eyes are wet but he's smiling, really smiling, and it transforms his whole face. "That's what I miss the most," he admits. "Not the winning, not the glory or whatever. Just that feeling of being exactly who you're meant to be, of your body doing exactly what you ask it to do. Of being whole."
The word lands between you like a grenade, and suddenly you're both crying, quiet tears that slip down your faces without permission. Because you know that feeling too, the feeling of being whole, and you know what it's like to lose it, to have your body become a stranger, an enemy, a prison. You reach for his hand again—it's become your habit, this touching, this constant physical connection that grounds you both—and he grips it like a lifeline.
"I know," you whisper, your voice thick with tears. "I know exactly what you mean."
And you do, God help you, you do. You remember what it felt like to run, to feel your legs eating up the pavement, to feel your heart pounding in that good way, the way that meant you were alive and strong and capable. You remember dancing in your apartment, drunk on cheap wine and good music, spinning in circles until you were dizzy with joy. You remember your body as a source of pleasure instead of pain, as something that worked with you instead of against you.
"Tell me yours," Art says, squeezing your hand. "Tell me your best moment, your invincible moment."
You have to think about it, have to dig through the rubble of your before-life to find something worth sharing. "Freshman year of college," you finally say. "There was this party—typical stupid college party, too many people crammed into too small a space, music too loud, drinks too strong. And everyone was dancing, just completely unselfconscious, and I remember thinking how usually I'd be standing on the sidelines watching because I was too anxious, too worried about looking stupid." Art's thumb traces patterns on your knuckles, encouraging you to continue. "But that night I just... went for it. Just threw myself into the crowd and danced like an idiot, and it was amazing. I felt so free, so completely myself, and there was this moment where the song changed to something everyone knew and the whole room started singing along, and I was part of it, part of this collective joy."
Your voice breaks on the last word, and Art pulls your joined hands up to rest against his chest, right over his heart. You can feel it beating, steady but too fast, his body working overtime just to keep him alive.
"I miss that," you confess. "I miss being able to just exist in my body without constantly monitoring it, without wondering if this is going to be the day everything gets worse. I miss being young and stupid and thinking I had forever."
Art makes a noise in the back of his throat, agreement and grief all mixed together. "We should've had forever," he says fiercely. "We should've had decades of being young and stupid, of making mistakes and fixing them, of growing up and growing old. This is bullshit. This whole thing is complete and utter bullshit."
You can't argue with that because he's right—it is bullshit, it's cosmically unfair, it's wrong in every possible way. So instead you just nod, and you lie there together in his hospital bed because at some point during the conversation you ended up next to him instead of in the chair, and you hold each other while the machines beep and the poison drips and the world keeps turning outside like none of this matters.
The sun sets beyond the closed blinds, the room growing darker except for the glow from the monitors and the hallway light seeping under the door. A nurse will come eventually, will probably scold you for being in the bed with him, will cite infection risk and protocol and all the rules designed to keep sick people alive. But for now, for this moment, it's just you and Art and the shared understanding that you're both drowning and the only thing keeping you afloat is each other.
"Thank you," he whispers into the darkness, his breath warm against your temple.
"For what?" you ask, even though you know.
"For seeing me," he says simply. "For not treating me like I'm already dead. For letting me talk about tennis without trying to tell me I'll play again someday. For just... being here. Being real." You turn your face into his shoulder, breathing in the smell of hospital soap and sickness and underneath it all, something that's just Art.
"Thank you for the same thing," you tell him. "For not bullshitting me. For understanding. For making this bearable."
He kisses the top of your head then, soft and chaste and devastating, and you both pretend it doesn't mean anything even though it means everything. You pretend you're just two friends offering comfort, not two people falling in love in the worst possible circumstances, not two people who found each other in the wreckage and decided to hold on even though you both know how this ends. Because what else can you do? You're here, he's here, and the time you have is running out faster than either of you wants to acknowledge. So you hold each other in the dark, and you don't talk about tomorrow or next week or next month. You just exist in this moment, this pocket of peace in the middle of the nightmare, and you let it be enough.
⸻
The decline, when it comes, is both sudden and inevitable. You know it's coming—you've known since the day you met him that Art is on borrowed time, that the leukemia is aggressive and unforgiving and probably going to win—but knowing doesn't prepare you for the reality of watching it happen. It starts small, so small you almost miss it: he's a little more tired than usual, sleeps through more of your visits, needs help sitting up when before he could manage it on his own. His appetite, already shit because of the chemo, disappears entirely. The nurses start bringing him meal trays that go back to the kitchen untouched, and you watch him get thinner, watch his collarbones jut out like accusation, watch his face hollow out until he's all eyes and cheekbones and translucent skin.
His oncologist—Dr. Morrison, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and the exhausted demeanor of someone who's watched too many young people die—starts using different words. Words like "palliative" and "comfort measures" and "quality of life," words that are code for "we're giving up."
Art takes the news with that same bitter acceptance he applies to everything, just nods once and says, "Okay, so how long?"
Dr. Morrison hesitates, and you can see her weighing how honest to be, how much hope to leave him. "It's hard to say," she starts, but Art cuts her off with a rough laugh that turns into a cough.
"Bullshit," he says when he can breathe again. "You know. You've done this before. Just tell me."
She looks at you then, like she's asking permission, and you nod because Art deserves the truth even if it's going to destroy you both. "Weeks," she says quietly. "Maybe a month, if we're lucky. Your blast count is too high, and the chemo isn't bringing it down anymore. Your body can't take another round, Art. I'm sorry."
The silence after she leaves is enormous, suffocating, filled with everything neither of you can say. Art stares at the ceiling, his jaw working like he's trying to swallow something too big, and you sit frozen in your chair, your hand still wrapped around his, trying to process the fact that you just got an expiration date on the person who's become the most important part of your fucked-up life.
"Weeks," Art finally says, testing the word like it's in a foreign language. "Jesus Christ, weeks. That's it? That's all I get?" His voice cracks, and you watch him fight against the breakdown, watch him try to hold it together the way he's been holding it together for months. But this time he can't, this time the reality is too big to swallow, and he turns his face into the pillow and sobs. Deep, wrenching sounds that come from somewhere in his chest, somewhere primal and terrified, and all you can do is climb into the bed next to him and wrap yourself around him and let him fall apart.
You cry too, helpless tears that soak into his hospital gown, your own grief mixing with his until you can't tell where his pain ends and yours begins. "It's not fair," you keep saying, over and over like a prayer or a curse. "It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fucking fair."
And it's not—it's not fair that he's twenty-one with a killer serve and a future that should have been full of trophies and endorsements and Grand Slam titles. It's not fair that his body turned on him, that medicine failed him, that he has to die in this awful room with its awful lights and its awful machines. It's not fair that you found him, that you fell for him, that you're going to have to live with the hole he leaves behind. But fair doesn't matter, fair has never mattered, and the universe doesn't give a shit about what you deserve or what Art deserves or what anyone deserves.
Eventually you both run out of tears, run out of energy, run out of everything except the raw fact of what's coming. Art pulls back enough to look at you, and his face is blotchy and swollen and still the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
"I don't wanna die," he whispers, and it's the first time he's said it out loud, the first time he's let himself be that vulnerable. "I know I've been all tough and accepting and whatever, but I don't want to die. I'm... I'm scared." The admission breaks something open in your chest, and you cup his face in your hands, your thumbs wiping away tears that just keep coming.
"I know," you tell him, and your voice is steady even though you're shattering inside. "I know you're scared. I'm scared too. I'm fucking terrified of losing you."
He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. "Will you stay?" he asks. "When... it happens? Will you be here?"
You don't even have to think about it. "Yes," you promise. "I'll be here. You won't be alone, Art. I swear to God, you won't be alone."
The days after that conversation blur together in a haze of morphine and monitoring and making the most of whatever time is left. Art's parents come more often now, his mother red-eyed and trembling, his father silent and gray-faced, and you fade into the background during their visits, giving them space to say goodbye to their son. But you're always there in the margins, waiting in the hallway or the cafeteria, and when they leave—exhausted and grief-stricken and barely holding it together—you slip back into his room and take up your post in that vinyl chair that's molded to the shape of you by now. Sometimes Art is awake enough to talk, and those conversations are precious, final, weighted with the knowledge that everything you say might be the last thing you say. Other times he sleeps, his breathing labored and uneven, and you just watch him, memorizing every detail, storing up images for the long empty after.
He tells you things in those last days, confessions and secrets and truths he's never spoken out loud. He tells you about the first boy he kissed—a doubles partner when he was sixteen, fumbling and awkward and perfect. He tells you about the time he almost quit tennis, burned out and exhausted at nineteen, and how his grandmother talked him back into it with stories about regret and unfinished business. He tells you he's glad he met you, that even though everything about this situation is terrible, having you here makes it bearable.
"You're the best thing that's happened to me in this nightmare," he says one night, his words slurred with painkillers but sincere. "I mean that. If I had to be sick, I'm glad I got to be sick with you."
You kiss his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and you tell him the same thing back because it's true—he's the best thing too, this dying boy who saw you, who understood you, who loved you in the only way he had left.
Your own health takes a backseat during this time. You miss appointments, skip infusions, ignore the way your joints are swelling and your fatigue is getting worse. Patricia scolds you when she catches you, tells you that you can't take care of Art if you don't take care of yourself, but you can't bring yourself to leave him, not now, not when every hour might be the last one. So you stay, and your body screams at you for it, and you decide that future-you can deal with the consequences because present-you has more important things to worry about. Like the way Art's breathing is getting shallower, the way his skin is taking on a grayish tint, the way the spaces between his moments of lucidity are getting longer. Like the fact that you're watching someone you love die in real-time and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
The nursing staff bends the rules for you in ways they probably shouldn't. They let you stay past visiting hours, let you sleep in the chair next to his bed, bring you food and coffee and extra blankets when you're shivering. They've seen this before—the vigil, the desperate clinging to borrowed time—and they understand that sometimes the protocol matters less than the human connection. Patricia, especially, becomes an ally, checking on you as often as she checks on Art, making sure you're eating something, reminding you to stretch your legs, giving you privacy when you need to fall apart.
"You're a good friend," she tells you one morning, and you don't correct her, don't tell her that friend doesn't begin to cover what Art is to you. That he's become your whole world in the space of three months, that you can't imagine your life without him in it even though you're going to have to.
There's a night—you think it's a Tuesday, though time has lost all meaning—when Art is more awake than he's been in days. The morphine has reached some perfect balance where he's not in agony but also not completely lost, and his eyes are clear when they find yours in the dim room.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is barely a whisper but it's him, it's really him.
"Hey yourself," you answer, moving from the chair to the bed, fitting yourself carefully against his side. He's so fragile now, all sharp edges and brittle bones, and you're terrified of hurting him but he makes a small sound of contentment when you settle in.
"I've been thinking," he says slowly, like each word costs him. "About what happens after. If there even is an after."
You go still against him, your heart contracting painfully. "Yeah?"
He nods slightly, his head moving against yours. "I think—I think I'd want to come back as something that moves. Something fast. Like a bird, or maybe the wind. Something that's not trapped in one place."
The image of it makes you smile despite the tears that are already forming. "That's perfect," you tell him. "You'd make a beautiful bird. Or a beautiful wind. You could blow through tennis courts and fuck up everyone's serves."
He laughs, just a breath of sound, but it's genuine. "Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah, I like that. Haunting tennis courts, being a pain in the ass even when I'm dead." Then, softer: "What about you? What would you come back as?
You consider it, really think about it, because if this is one of your last conversations, you want to give him a real answer. "Water," you finally say. "I think I'd want to be water. Rain or ocean or even just a stream. Something that flows, that adapts, that can be soft or powerful depending on what's needed. Something that touches everything and everyone."
"Water," he repeats thoughtfully. "I like that for you. It fits."
He's quiet for a moment, and you can hear the machines, the distant sounds of the hospital at night, the labored rhythm of his breathing. "Promise me something," he says eventually. "Promise me you'll keep going. After. Promise me you won't give up."
You want to protest, want to tell him that you can't imagine a world where you keep going without him in it, but the earnestness in his voice stops you. "Art—"
"Please," he interrupts, and there's urgency there now, desperation. "I need to know that this meant something, that knowing you meant something. If you give up, if you let the lupus win, then what was the point? Promise me you'll fight. Promise me you'll live."
The words are a knife to your chest, but you understand what he's asking. He needs to know that his death won't take you down too, that there will be someone left who remembers him, who carries him forward. "I promise," you whisper, and you mean it even though it feels impossible. "I'll keep fighting. I'll live. For both of us."
He relaxes at that, some tension leaving his body, and his hand finds yours under the blanket, threading your fingers together one more time. "Good," he breathes. "That's good. Thank you."
You lie there together as the night deepens, as the hospital settles into its twilight rhythm, and you try to memorize everything—the weight of him against you, the sound of his breathing, the way his thumb still does that absent stroking thing across your knuckles. The way he smells like hospital and sickness but also like himself, some essential Art-ness that no amount of disease can erase. The way his heart beats against your palm when you press your hand to his chest, steady and strong and lying because it won't be steady or strong for much longer. You catalog it all, store it away in the vault of your memory, knowing that soon this will be all you have left.
⸻
The end comes on a Thursday. You'll remember that later, how it was Thursday and the weather was beautiful—unseasonably warm for October, the kind of day that makes people walk around in t-shirts and plan picnics, the kind of day that has no business being the day someone dies. You've been at the hospital for thirty-six hours straight, ignoring Patricia's pleas for you to go home and rest, because you can feel it in the air, this awful certainty that time is running out. Art has been mostly unconscious for the past two days, his body finally giving up the fight, shutting down system by system in a cascade of failures that Dr. Morrison explained in clinical terms that didn't make it any less horrifying. His kidneys are failing, his liver is struggling, his blood pressure keeps dropping despite the medications they're pumping into him. He's drowning from the inside, fluid filling his lungs, and even with the oxygen mask they can't seem to get enough air into him.
You haven't left his side except to use the bathroom, and even then you practically run back, terrified that you'll miss it, that he'll slip away while you're gone and you'll break your promise to be there. His parents were here earlier, his mother sobbing so hard she had to be sedated, his father standing stone-faced and silent until he finally broke and had to leave the room. They said their goodbyes—you gave them privacy for that, waited in the hallway with your heart in your throat while they told their son they loved him one last time. When they emerged, his father pulled you aside, this man you barely know, and gripped your shoulder with a hand that was shaking.
"Thank you," he said, his voice wrecked. "Thank you for being here for him. For making him less alone." You couldn't speak, could only nod, and then they were gone, unable to watch the final act, and you understood because how could anyone watch their child die?
So it's just you now, you and Art and the machines that are still beeping out their steady rhythms even though the body they're monitoring is already half-gone. You're lying next to him in the bed—fuck the rules, fuck the protocol, you're not leaving him now—with your head on his chest, listening to his heart struggle through each beat. It's slower than it should be, irregular, skipping beats like it's forgetting how to work, and every time it stutters you freeze, thinking this is it, this is the moment. But then it catches again, keeps going, stubborn and determined even as the rest of him fails. His breathing is terrible, wet and labored, each inhale a fight he's losing, and you can hear the death rattle that the nurses warned you about, that horrible gurgling sound that means the end is close.
"I'm here," you keep whispering, your lips against his gown, your hand wrapped around his. "I'm right here, Art. You're not alone. I've got you."
You don't know if he can hear you—he hasn't responded to anything in hours, hasn't opened his eyes or squeezed your hand or shown any sign that he knows you're there. But you keep talking anyway, keep telling him it's okay to let go, that you'll be okay, that he doesn't have to fight anymore. You tell him about the sun outside, how it's a perfect October day, how if he could see it he'd probably want to be on a court somewhere hitting serves. You tell him you love him, finally say the words you've been swallowing for weeks, because what does it matter now? What does anything matter except making sure he knows, making sure he leaves this world knowing he was loved?
The morning stretches into afternoon, time moving like molasses, like you're trapped in amber. Patricia checks in periodically, her face grave, adjusting Art's medications, checking his vitals even though you all know the numbers don't matter anymore. She brings you water, makes you drink it, touches your shoulder with a gentleness that makes you want to scream. The other nurses stop by too, these women who've been taking care of Art for months, who've watched this vibrant boy deteriorate into this shell, and you can see the grief in their faces too. Death is supposed to be routine in a place like this, but it never really is, especially not when it's someone young, someone who should have had decades left.
Around three in the afternoon, something changes. You feel it before you understand it—the way Art's body shifts against yours, the way his breathing pattern changes, becomes even more irregular, more desperate. His heart is racing now, too fast, like it's trying to outrun what's coming, and you sit up, your own heart hammering, knowing that this is it.
"Art," you say, louder now, urgent, your hand cupping his face. "Art, I'm here. I'm right here with you." His eyes flutter open—just barely, just for a second—and you see him in there, see recognition and fear and something that might be relief. His lips move like he's trying to say something, but no sound comes out, just a thin wheeze that breaks your heart into a thousand pieces. You lean down, pressing your forehead to his, breathing the same air, trying to give him whatever strength you have left even though you know it's not enough, it's never enough.
"It's okay," you tell him, and you're crying now, tears falling onto his face, mixing with the sweat and the sickness. "It's okay to go. You don't have to be scared. I love you, Art. I love you so fucking much. You made this bearable. You made me less alone. Thank you for that. Thank you for seeing me, for letting me see you. Thank you for every conversation, every moment, every time you made me laugh when I thought I'd forgotten how."
His breathing is slowing now, the spaces between breaths getting longer, and you can feel his heartbeat stuttering under your palm, failing.
"You're gonna be free now," you whisper through your tears. "No more hospitals, no more treatments, no more pain. You're going to run and play tennis and be everything you were supposed to be. And I'm going to remember you. I'm going to carry you with me. You're not going to be forgotten, Art. I promise you won't be forgotten."
His next breath rattles in his chest, wet and wrong, and then there's a pause. A long pause. You wait, holding your own breath, waiting for the next inhale that you know isn't coming. The monitors are screaming now, alarms going off, but you barely hear them. You're focused on Art, on his face that's gone slack, on the way the tension has left his body, on the absolute stillness of his chest.
"No," you hear yourself saying, even though you knew this was coming, even though you've been preparing for this. "No, no, no, Art, please. Please don't go. Please."
But he's already gone. You can feel the absence of him, the way his body is just a body now, no longer inhabited by the person you love. His heart has stopped—you know this even before the monitor flatlines, can feel the silence in his chest where there used to be a beat.
The nurses rush in, Patricia first, and she takes one look at the monitor, at Art's still face, at you collapsed over his body, and she knows there's no point in trying to resuscitate. This was always coming, and Art had signed the DNR weeks ago, made the choice to go peacefully when his time came. She silences the alarms with efficient movements, and suddenly the room is too quiet, horribly quiet, just the sound of your ragged breathing and your sobs filling the space.
"I'm so sorry," Patricia says, and she sounds like she means it, like this death matters to her too. "He's gone, honey. He's at peace now." Peace. The word is obscene, meaningless, a platitude that makes you want to rage at her even though you know she's trying to help. How can he be at peace when he's dead at twenty-one? How can any of this be peaceful?
You don't know how long you stay there, draped over Art's body, clinging to him like if you just hold on tight enough you can keep him here, keep him with you. Your hands are in his hair, on his face, feeling the warmth slowly leaking out of him as his body cools, as the machines are disconnected one by one and the room becomes even more silent. Patricia lets you have this time, doesn't rush you, doesn't tell you that you need to leave so they can prepare the body. She just stands nearby, a quiet presence, and when you finally pull back—your face swollen, your throat raw from crying—she helps you stand on shaking legs.
"Do you want to call anyone?" she asks gently, and you shake your head because there's no one to call, no one who would understand what you've lost.
"Okay," she says. "Okay, that's okay. Why don't we get you cleaned up, get you home. You've been here a long time."
But you can't leave, not yet, not when Art is still here, still exists in this room even if he's gone from his body. You move back to the bed, taking his hand one more time, and it's still warm, still feels like him, and that somehow makes it worse. "I'll keep my promise," you tell him, even though he can't hear you anymore, even though it's just you talking to a corpse in a hospital room. "I'll keep fighting. I'll live for both of us. But fuck, Art, I don't know how to do this without you. I don't know how to be in a world where you don't exist."
The words break on a sob, and you lean down, pressing one last kiss to his forehead, feeling the coolness of his skin against your lips. "I love you," you whisper one more time. "I'm sorry this happened to you. I'm sorry you didn't get more time. I'm sorry for everything."
Patricia eventually coaxes you out of the room, her arm around your waist, supporting you because your legs don't seem to remember how to work. You look back once, seeing Art's body on the bed, seeing how small he looks without the force of his personality animating him, and then you're in the hallway and the door is closing and that's it. He's gone. The boy with the blue eyes and the beautiful serve and the bitter humor that cut through your defenses like a knife—he's gone. And you're still here, still breathing, still alive in a body that won't stop betraying you, and the unfairness of it threatens to bring you to your knees right there in the corridor.
You make it to your car somehow, though you don't remember walking through the hospital, don't remember the elevator or the parking garage or finding your keys. You sit behind the wheel and stare at nothing, at the concrete wall in front of you, and try to understand that you will never see Art again. Never hear his voice, never feel his hand in yours, never watch him struggle to smile through the pain. All those conversations, all those shared moments, all that intimacy born from shared suffering—it's over. Finished. Done. He existed and now he doesn't, and you're supposed to just accept that, supposed to just move on, supposed to keep living like your world hasn't ended.
The grief hits you in waves, drowning you, pulling you under until you can't breathe. You scream in your car, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles go white, screaming until your throat is raw and your voice is gone. You scream for Art, for his stolen future, for the life he should have had. You scream for yourself, for the hole he's left in your chest, for the loneliness that's already settling over you like a blanket. You scream at the universe, at God if there is one, at the cosmic unfairness of twenty-one-year-olds dying of leukemia while terrible people live to old age. And when you're done screaming, when you've exhausted yourself, you put your head on the steering wheel and cry. Deep, wrenching sobs that come from somewhere primal, somewhere that understands loss in a way your conscious mind can't process yet.
The sun is setting when you finally drive home, the sky painted in oranges and pinks that seem offensive in their beauty. How dare the world be beautiful when Art is dead? How dare the sun set and rise again like nothing has changed? You pull into your apartment complex and sit in your parking spot, watching the light fade, and think about Art's promise to come back as something that moves. A bird, the wind, something free. You wonder if he's out there somewhere, if some essential part of him continues, or if he's just gone, extinguished like a candle. You want to believe in an afterlife, in something after, but right now all you feel is the absence, the Art-shaped hole in the world that nothing will ever fill.
Your apartment is exactly how you left it—dishes in the sink, unmade bed, mail piled on the counter—and it feels surreal that everything here is the same when you're completely different. You were a person who had Art when you left. Now you're a person who doesn't, who never will again. You move through your space like a ghost, mechanically showering off the hospital smell, changing into clean clothes, trying to eat something and giving up after two bites. Everything feels wrong, off-kilter, like you're moving through a reality that doesn't quite fit anymore. Your phone has messages—your parents, your friends, people checking in—but you can't bring yourself to respond, can't find the words to tell them that Art died, that the boy they didn't know existed took a piece of you with him.
You end up on your couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the wall as night falls completely. Your body aches—your joints are swollen, your fever is back, your own illness reminding you that you're still sick, still fighting your own battle. But you don't care. You don't care about anything except the fact that Art is gone and you're still here and you promised him you'd keep living. It seems like the cruelest promise you've ever made, the most impossible task. How do you keep living when the person who made life bearable is dead? How do you wake up tomorrow and the day after and the day after that, knowing he'll never wake up again?
You must fall asleep eventually because you wake with a start hours later, disoriented and aching, your face crusty with dried tears. For a brief, beautiful moment, you forget. And then you remember—Art is dead—and the grief crashes over you again, fresh and devastating like it's happening for the first time. You wonder if this is what the rest of your life will be: waking up and remembering, over and over, that he's gone. The thought is unbearable, but you bear it anyway because what choice do you have? You get up, you move through your apartment, you exist in this new reality where Art Donaldson is past tense, where he's a memory instead of a person.
The days that follow are a blur of numb grief and administrative nightmares. You have to call the hospital, have to get information about Art's funeral because his parents asked Patricia to tell you, because apparently Art told them about you, told them you mattered. The service is small, held at a church in New Rochelle that Art probably never attended, filled with people who knew him before—tennis teammates and college friends and family members who cry in that performative way of people who didn't watch him die, who didn't sit with him in his worst moments.
You sit in the back, feeling like an intruder, feeling like your grief is too big and too private for this public display. They talk about his tennis career, his potential, his bright future, and they get it all wrong because they're talking about the Art who existed before the leukemia, the Art who was whole and healthy and had dreams. They didn't know the Art you knew—the one who made dark jokes about his blood counts, who cried in your arms about being scared, who found beauty even in the nightmare of dying.
You don't speak at the service. You can't. What would you even say? That you fell in love with him in a hospital? That he made your own suffering bearable just by understanding it? That three months with him meant more than years with anyone else? It all feels too intimate, too raw, too precious to share with these strangers who are crying for someone they've already romanticized into a tragedy instead of remembering him as a person. So you sit in silence, and when they lower his casket into the ground you think about his body in there, the body you held, the body that fought so hard to stay alive, and you have to leave before the first shovel of dirt falls because you can't watch them bury him, can't accept the finality of it.
You drive to the beach after, some instinct pulling you toward water, toward the thing you said you'd want to come back as. You walk along the shore as the sun sets, watching the waves roll in and out with their eternal rhythm, and you talk to Art like he can hear you. You tell him about the service, about how they got him wrong, about how you wanted to stand up and scream at them that they didn't know him, not really, not the way you did. You tell him you miss him so much it feels like dying, like your body is trying to follow his into death. You tell him you're trying to keep your promise, trying to keep fighting, but it's so fucking hard when the person who made it worth fighting is gone.
The wind picks up, whipping your hair around your face, and you want to believe it's him, want to believe he's found his freedom and come back to tell you he's okay. But you're not sure you believe in that kind of thing, and even if you did, the wind is just wind, indifferent and impersonal. Art is gone, and you're alone with your grief and your illness and your promise to live. So you stand there on the beach, watching the sun disappear into the ocean, and you make a choice. You choose to honor him by surviving. By fighting the lupus, by showing up to your appointments, by doing the work of staying alive even when it feels impossible. Not because you want to, but because you promised him you would, and promises to the dead are the most sacred kind.
You'll carry him with you—in your memories, in your heart, in the way you understand suffering now in a way you never did before. Art Donaldson lived for twenty-one years, and for three months of that life, he was yours and you were his, and nothing can take that away. Not death, not time, not the cruel unfairness of a universe that takes the beautiful things too soon. He existed, he mattered, and you loved him. And that has to be enough, even though it's not, even though it will never be enough.
You return to the hospital the following week for your own treatment, and walking through those doors feels like wading through water, like every step requires more strength than you have.
Patricia sees you and her face crumples, and she pulls you into a hug that you sink into, letting her hold you up for a moment. "How are you doing?" she asks when she pulls back, and it's such an inadequate question that you almost laugh.
How are you doing? You're destroyed. You're gutted. You're a person-shaped hole walking around pretending to be whole. But you say, "I'm here. That's something." And she nods like she understands, because maybe she does, maybe she's seen this enough times to recognize the particular species of grief that comes from losing someone in this place.
You sit in your usual chair in the infusion center, the one you always sat in before you started spending all your time in Art's room, and it feels wrong. Everything feels wrong. The chair across from you is empty, will always be empty now, and you stare at it while the familiar burn of medication enters your veins. You think about Art sitting there that first day, slouched and beautiful and dying, asking you if it was your first time. You think about how you nodded back at him, that silent acknowledgment, and how that single moment changed everything. You found each other in hell, and he made the burning bearable, and now he's gone and you're still burning.
But you're here. You showed up. You're fighting, just like you promised. And maybe that's all you can do—keep showing up, keep fighting, keep living in a world that doesn't have Art in it anymore. Some days that will feel impossible. Most days, probably. But you'll do it anyway, because love doesn't end when someone dies, and neither do promises. You'll carry him with you through every treatment, every bad day, every moment when your body tries to quit. You'll remember what he taught you about finding connection in suffering, about honesty in the face of death, about holding on to beauty even when everything is terrible.
Art Donaldson died on a Thursday in October, and the world kept turning like it didn't matter, like losing him wasn't the end of everything. But it mattered to you. He mattered to you. And you'll spend the rest of your life—however long that is—making sure that his mattering meant something. Making sure that the three months you had together weren't just a tragic footnote but a testament to the fact that even in the worst circumstances, even in the shadow of death, love is possible. Connection is possible. Meaning is possible.
You'll live for him. For his stolen serves and his blue eyes and his bitter humor. For the way he held your hand and let you see him scared. For every moment of honesty, every shared grief, every time you made each other less alone. You'll live because he can't, and because somewhere in the space between dying and dead, he asked you to. And that's a debt you'll spend your whole life trying to repay.
The IV drips into your arm, and you close your eyes, and you breathe. In and out. In and out. Still alive, still fighting, still here. It's not enough, but it's what you have. And for now—for today—that has to be enough.
summary: after two years of patrick calling her late at night to come over and fuck, reader decides to end the cycle. it just so happens to be the night patrick planned on confessing that he’d maybe caught feelings.
warnings: mentions of sex, kissing, angst, fluff, reconciliation, mentions of alcohol
no matter how bad or selfish or borderline rude he was- patrick zweig would call, you would come. literally.
you shook your head at him in the parking lot of the motel he was staying at while he was on tour. you were in college. he was in your area and he called, and you went. you shook your head and you stood your ground and you knew you’d come, but you didn’t come. you wouldn’t. this was it.
“came all this way for what, then?” he asked, arms gesturing to you. 2am on a sunday. your arms were folded over your chest, red zip up slipping down your shoulder. the end-of-summer air was the perfect temperature. warm, but with hints of a cool wind that tousled your hair a little. “you drive over here at 2am just to stand there and say you can’t and that i’m not good? for you? for what?”
his words sometimes stung like this, but this feeling- you felt it in your fingers like loaded springs in a pressed coil. you felt it shoot sharply against the very tip of your fingers and toes. live wires. electric pain.
he was loud for a motel at 2am. you hated it. you hated that you even showed up. your friends shouted at you to stop letting him dictate the place you lay your head when he’s in town. shaking you, telling you to stop seeing him if you feel like shit the afternoon of the next day. you tried to stay away, you did, you wanted to. but something about the whirlwind, like a riptide, pulling you back out. this early. this late. like a sleeper agent, you were put in action. like an on/off button on a toy. and you hated it. so you showed up. and he was greeting you, and you pulled away. which led to this mess, this confusion.
you did not want to be pulled under again just for an afternoon of shame. you swore sometimes returning home, you accidentally held your shoes in your hand minutes after getting back to your dorm. the shame lingered, festered. your girlfriends usually had to bribe you out of the disgusting stupor.
“i can’t, patrick, i’m sorry,” you said, anxious enough to shake just slightly. “i’m going home.”
“you drove thirty minutes to come here, say hi, and say sorry?”
“guess so,” you bit your lip. he looked at you with disbelief. this was unlike you. usually he had you horizontal by now. you guessed that he didn’t like your non-compliance attitude. it was new, fresh, probably scared him. you imagined he was hungry right now, upset about not having what he wanted. what he ordered.
“why are you still here then?” he asked. it was bitter, his tone. “you said it, go.” one of his hand shoved into his jean pocket, he gestured toward your car with the other one. “fuck, didn’t want to see you anyway. go.”
“you mean fuck me?” you scoffed, almost baffled at his choice of word. it was so simple, the word ‘see’ instead of ‘fuck’, but at this point. it was too far gone to be unnoticed. “didn’t want to fuck me anyway? god, what will you do when your number one piece of ass walks out on you? you’ve got the second piece of ass on speed dial, you don’t need me here, patrick. you want me. i don’t want that anymore.”
his raised eyebrows fell and his darkened, but not in a way that scared you at all. more like clouded over, like breaking a spell. you stood your ground, despite watching his body lose it’s tense.
you shook your head again, taking a step back. “goodnight.” he had nothing to say, he just stared at you. you imagined you’d upset him, and that he was only upset with you. not himself. would be just like him. so you took another step back and turned, walking back over to your car. you’d have to get gas on the way home. your heart raced, but this was it, this was over.
you unlocked the door, opened it, got in, and you reached to close the door, but it was stopped by his hand on the corner. his figure startled you just a bit, and you wondered if he had seen it, afraid you looked stupid or something. you also wondered if he’d hurt his hand catching the door like that. and then you wondered why he did it, before he spoke.
“there’s no ‘second piece of ass,’ first up.” he said. you couldn’t see his face. only heard him, voice firm. “it’s only you and you’re not just a ‘piece of ass’, or a toy. i don’t know where you got that idea.” he said.
you turned your legs out of the drivers seat and stood up. he stepped back to let you out and you looked at him expectantly. he stopped your door from closing, it better be fucking good. your anxiety was turning into adrenaline. recycling.
he kept talking, “yeah, i did want to fuck you. i always do when you’re around. can’t help myself. and speaking of no second ‘pieces of ass,’ i don’t have a single other girl in rotation, though i know you believe differently.” he said it like they were supposed to be offensive words, but they were genuine, hidden by sharp tone. shielded. “it’s only you. when i’m away i’m passing time waiting to come back around. i call you, we fuck, you leave. it’s all i get.”
“all you get?” you snapped. “like i’m supposed to do more?” you advanced a step on him, but he didn’t move. “i come over when you ask, i ride you until you come, you’ve insulted me, you’ve made me feel like i’m not good enough for you since we met. and i could have anyone else, but you keep me in your pocket to call and fuck and go back on tour, leaving me to feel used and stupid. and you want more from me? what do you want? a fuckbuddy, a friend? i feel like you want a toy.”
“what i want,” his words overlapped with your last ones. “fuck- i don’t have anyone else. it’s always you, i always come back here. i don’t have to, i could be closer to stanford with art, i could be back home constantly. but my winnings go to motels here, hotels here. when i say see you, i mean see you, i don’t just mean fuck you. what do you want me to tell you?”
“what does that even mean?” you gestured wildly. “what do you want me to tell you? i don’t know, patrick. i’m trying to say goodbye to you, i don’t want you around, i don’t want to see you. don’t come around here if you don’t want to.”
he looked far left, shaking his head, taking a sharp breath in. “what do you want me to say? because i’m sure you’re being obtuse on fucking purpose. i want to see you. i dont want to see anyone else. i dont want to fuck anyone else either, but they go together. you think i don’t know i’m an asshole? you’ve told me again and again.”
“you are!” you ensured. he shut his eyes tight and pressed his tongue to the side of his cheek. your body pulsed, electric pain now a current running through every vain. you felt it in every appendage. your stomach muscles were tight, and you were sure you weren’t breathing enough.
but he looked down at you, breaking the small silence, continuing, “an asshole. so yeah, i figure i should leave you alone for your own good, but then when i’m out of here and back on tour, i can’t get you out of my head and as soon as i’m done, i end up back here, calling you. and you come. and then you’re gone.”
“patri-“
“i don’t deserve more than that, i know you’re not staying. and you probably should go, but i don’t know. i don’t even know why i stopped your door. just go if you’re gonna fucking go.”
another beat passed. you looked at him, shaking your head in disbelief. “what are you saying?”
“i don’t fucking know.” he looked at his feet, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek again. his hand met the back of his neck. “delete my number and i’ll delete yours. i’ll do it in the morning. just fuck off.”
your eyes burned, your emotions piling on top of each other, all pressing on your chest. you watched his foot turn to face you. you grabbed the door of the car and braced a little against the anxious ball of weight that was suddenly returning. circumstances began to shift underneath your feet, dizzying you just a little. and you were unfortunately sober. you blinked hard, shaking your head.
“yeah, whatever.” patrick replied to your own thoughts, reading your mind. he must have, there wasn’t another explanation. “i’ll do what you want, though. genuinely.”
you could feel he meant it. it wasn’t an empty promise. you knew he knew you were wondering if it was, and he wanted you to know it wasn’t. he was giving you up as well. when you met him, you thought he was cute, and you were drunk. sometimes you wondered if you had met him sober and didn’t take him home that night, that maybe he’d take you seriously. but that thought had been given up two weeks in, two years ago. it was weird to feel like it never really left as you slowly began to wonder if he meant what you never thought he could mean.
“okay,” you agreed, swallowing hard. he raised his head from his feet. you would give him up, he would give you up. the soft september breeze blew his curls just slightly. his eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. you always liked his eyelashes, you didn’t think that they’d be even prettier when wet. you could see it in the motel light, the light bounced off of it. it was so weird. “you’re upset.”
“go.”
“patrick.”
“you’re not supposed to give a fuck. i’m begging you not to give a fuck.”
“say what you mean,” you ordered him, wits end. edge of your seat. “fuck, say it!”
“i don’t know what you want me to say!”
“am i just a body to you?”
“no, fuck off.”
“tell me.”
“tell you what?”
you looked him in the eyes, “are you telling me you… fuck, i can’t-“ you couldn’t even say it, you felt so stupid. “fuck, patrick!” both of you couldn’t say it. but it was so familiar, the feeling. the nervousness, the tingling in your limbs, the flip of your stomach. resurfacing, curious, naive.
both of you getting more riled up by the second, you looked anywhere else. you heard him breathe out hard, exasperated. “i don’t think i should say anything.”
“so why?”
he shook his head, “you deserve better.”
“than you?”
“yeah.”
the silence stung your ears. the hair on your arms stood up straight. the air was suddenly hot and thick. and you held onto the door a little tighter.
“patrick, do you want me?”
he pressed his fingers to the side of his chin, turning his body away from you. you watched his hand slide down to the back of his neck. you knew him, he wasn’t dumb, he knew he had to say nothing. if he said something, you might stay. and it was best that you didn’t. the fight wasn’t worth having. “just go.” he replied, not even turning around. he couldn’t look at you.
your heart pulled, a sinking feeling filling your chest. why? this wasn’t attachment, this wasn’t manipulation, this was him. for the first time. him. “okay.” you said. but you stood there, just a moment longer. and he did turn after a moment, eyes locking on yours. you couldn’t really read him. but you didn’t need to. you just wanted to say goodbye properly.
so your hands fell on his shoulders, squeezing gently as they trailed over, up his neck, and to the back of his head as you kissed him slowly, deeply, passionately. there was no lust in this kiss, no urgency, no bed in sight. his hands, the most gentle they’d been without having to fuck first, slipped around your waist. he kissed you back just as softly. there was no hunger. just the chirp of crickets and the whisper of the nearby highway. and you kissed him, pressed against the side of your car. he kissed you the same. you head swam.
this was him. his desire was only to kiss you, his hands travelling up to your jaw as yours trailed down his chest. it was deep, slow, every moment felt. he was the best kisser, it felt a shame to stop kissing. so your arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer. he smelled like cigarettes and his subtle cologne. it seemed like the most familiar thing in the world. you sighed between kisses.
you wanted this. and you wondered how real it was. how badly did he want you to stay? the truth was, he wanted you to be free from his cycle. he knew he wasn’t supposed to have you. he thought this would have gone differently, planning out an entirely different way to tell you this. but he couldn’t say it anyway. it- the words- hung in the air as you kissed, embraced, and said goodbye all in one. it was bittersweet. and a little bit sad.
because the kiss eventually ended. and you stayed against him. he didn’t want you to know how upsetting it was to wrap his arms around you for the first and hopefully last time in this context. his lips pressed against the top of your head as you stayed that way just a moment longer. and even that moment ended.
you looked at him again. “goodnight, patrick.”
“goodnight, y/n.” he replied. “just fuck off.” but he didn’t mean it. and you drove away. that was it. that was your goodbye. and he didn’t come around again. he kept on tour and started going back home instead of toward you. you kept going to school, graduated. your friends were proud you quit the cycle, but you didn’t tell them about any of what patrick meant. it wasn’t romance, it wasn’t going to be.
you missed him sometimes. and four years passed as you missed him occasionally. friends came and went. you dated two guys since then, terrible in bed and horrible in general. you missed him after having to fake your last orgasm with the guy you were seeing. you had a job now, an apartment, a solid group of friends. things were good.
you were grocery shopping when you ran into him again. a cheap little shop that had the best chip selection and most essential items. you thought maybe it was someone else, but it was him, in a sweater and jeans, holding a stack of ramen bricks. and your heart skipped a beat, like you were four years younger and he still gave you butterflies. and you were about to move, to start to think of what to do, when he turned around and looked up to see you. he turned his head away, then back at you, doing his own double-take.
his eyes, just a little wide locked onto yours. so you smiled, a little smug at his reaction. you walked over with a slight sway. he continued to look bewildered. he looked four years older. and he thought you looked gorgeous. “hi.” you said, keeping that smile.
“hey.” he responded, blinking once. “how are you?”
“i’m okay,” you replied. “how are you?”
“i’m fine.” he swallowed again, as if nervous. “are you stopping by or are you local?”
“local, why? are you local?” you asked.
“yeah, i live a block away.” he said. “just moved.”
you stared at each other for a second more, analyzing features, thinking back… and you nodded, holding your carton of raspberries. “are you free tonight?” you smiled.
“uh- yeah, think so,” he replied. still shocked.
“would you maybe want to get a drink?”
“i would, yeah,”
you nodded again, rocking on your heels, “perfect. see you then.” your heart was beating a mile a minute. it was him, he was here, he lived here… and you’d just asked him to get a drink. but you weren’t nervous. just… excited. something in you knew more. he was different, he had changed, he carried himself differently. and you were trusting it. the past was the past. and there was a reason you ran into each other.
when you got home, you texted him. and it was a leap of faith to hope he had the same number. you relied on it. because even after all the time had passed, you never actually blocked his number. you couldn’t.
and the address to the bar delivered immediately, meaning… he hadn’t deleted yours either. all these years. you grinned a little as you read his response.
a/n: omg first fic on this account. thought maybe this was a fun place to start off. also, i might consider a second part to this fic.let me know if you want IN on the taglist. requests open!
