#no.42

[symphany]

I love him enough to never stop trying

and I know you do too

[pugh-bug]

No.42 Chapter 1

Art Donaldson x reader : slow burn friends to lovers

I finally wrote chapter 1, I hope you all enjoy it! I’m excited for this slow burn

You widened your eyes at Patrick’s casual declaration. As his words: ‘Art’s gonna come live with us for a while’ hung in the air, you watched your best friend of ten years destroy a churro like it didn’t matter. Flat No.42 had been your sanctuary for four years with nothing but Patrick’s film commentating disrupting your peace. The two of you had a rhythm. An understanding of how the other lived and wanted to live, a schedule for taking out the recycling that Patrick stubbornly ignored.

You had game nights, movie marathons all without anyone having to third wheel. You weren’t ready to give that up, not even for Art Donaldson a man you’d been acting a fool around since Patrick introduced you.

‘Y/N,’

As usual your face concealed nothing.

‘Be good about this okay? Liam kicked him out to move in with his girlfriend, the least I can do is let him live with us for a while.’

You tried to picture watching tv with Art or looking up from your cereal in the morning to be greeted with his sleepy, cute face and messy curls. It took half a second before Patrick asked why you were smiling and even less for you to force a complexed frown.

‘Okay so when’s he moving in?’

Patrick wiped his sugar dusted hands on his ‘I told ya’ shirt, gaging your reaction with amusement. ‘Today, probably 6.’ So much notice - not that you were surprised the man once woke you up 2 hours before a flight he forgot he’d booked for the two of you.

‘Thanks for the heads up.’

——————————————————————

Forever the most organised member of the fire and ice duo, Art was at your door at 6pm exactly. Patrick opened the door as if it was Christmas Day and Art was Santa himself, you’d seen him smile brightly countless times but he actually glowed around Art. It was sweet, only sometimes sickeningly, and you understood the obsession. Art was the type of person lonely people craved.

‘Have my room, I’ll take the sofabed.’

Art broke away from Patrick’s bear hug to widen his eyes. You couldn’t help but smile at Art’s reaction to his friends generous offer. Patrick had a way of being there for his friends in such a way that never made them feel like they owed him. He had always been kind because of who he was, not for any accolades yet it somehow seemed to amaze Art every time.

‘Y/N,’ He turned to look at you, walking over confidently. The two of you had only started hugging in the last month, and usually only at the end of days spent with Patrick. He always hugged Patrick first.

‘Welcome to our piece of shit flat,’ you chuckled, as Art pulled you into a short but sweet hug. It took all of your strength. and did every time, not to pull him even closer to you. He always smelt of strawberry scented shampoo and the occasional cigarette which on anyone else you would have hated, you didn’t smoke, but on Art was heaven.

Art liked his own space, as did you, so for a few hours you let him unpack and relax on his own whilst you caught up on work. It wasn’t until Patrick ransacked his/Art’s room for a tie that the equilibrium of the flat was disturbed. ‘I’ve got a date!’ He exclaimed, ignoring the horror in Art’s face. He’d been on his twentieth push up and hated being watched.

Rushing out the door, using one hand to dress himself and the other to text the girl he was going to be late, Patrick made a lot of noise. You and Art were stood in the living room watching his antics with equal amounts of amusement and judgement. When he finally made it outside, Art watched you lock the door behind him.

‘Lucky girl.’

You raised an eyebrow, not sure if he was joking.

‘She won’t feel it when he eats all her food as well as his.’

Art smiled at your quip, knowing it was absolutely true, and thought to himself how nice it was going to be to get to know you better.

Chapter 2

Masterlist

[jp-arch]

錬 (れん) // No.42 // 千葉県浦安市

[pugh-bug]

No.42 Chapter 4

Art Donaldson x reader slow burn friends to lovers

Let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list 💕 thank you so much for the love on this series so far I’m really grateful !

Part 3

——————————————————————

‘You should see him after a few games, it’s a lot.’

With a mouth full of burrito, you still managed to laugh at the image Liam and Art were conjuring of Patrick’s sunburn turning him beetroot. The three of you were sat at a cute little place you’d somehow never seen before, probably because you didn’t know the area that well. Art’s choice.

‘So how’s living with this one?’ Liam asked, spitting hummus everywhere as he spoke. Neither you or Art had known who his question was for so you both yelped

‘Good!’

A little too enthusiastically for Liam.

Art’s hair had dried perfectly in the piercing sun rays and the smell of his mint shampoo kept wafting in your direction whenever the breeze turned. Shit. You were supposed to be listening to Liam. What was he saying?’

‘Fridays good.’ Art nodded at his friend, not looking at you for conformation. Clearly someone had been listening. You waited until Liam was texting his girlfriend to hiss at Art what he’d just agreed to - the answer ? - a party at Liam’s.

‘Are you sure it’s okay … if I come?’ Neither boy missed the slight sadness in your question. Your search for validation and fear of the wrong outcome. As Liam beamed at you, reassuring your brain that you were indeed very much wanted at his party and that ‘it won’t be the same without you’ Art’s eyes were locked on your face. You failed to notice.

‘So don’t worry about it okay? It’s not a tennis people thing, just a Liam friends thing.’ He smiled, very genuinely, and you smiled back. When Liam went to the bathroom he noticed Art was picking aggressively at the table, something he’d never seen him do before.

Without looking up from his task of picking through wood one mm at a time, Art asked coldly. ‘When did Patrick say he’d be back?’ Oh fuck it was Sunday! Better check your phone.

2 missed messages.

12:03pm - Text from Patrick

It’s not going well at all. She keeps starting shit with me for no reason she’s a lot to deal with if I’m being honest. Hope your day is better than mine so far

1:26pm - Text from Patrick

You’ve gotta pick me up Y/N I can’t stay here with these people until 9 I’ll catch arsehole disease

Just as you thought of a reply that was both supportive and concerned your phone lit up. Patrick was calling.

‘Pat hey! I didn’t expect to hear fro-‘

‘Pick me up.’

‘Jesus okay-‘

‘Pretty please Y/N I’ll send you my location right now just get here.’

He had a tendency to overreact to uncomfortable situations but you could hear the genuine panic and defeat in his voice. You had to help him.

‘Okay okay but … what’s wrong with Uber?’

‘I can’t afford it.’

You took a deep breath, gesturing to Art to stop mouthing ‘what’s happening?’ so you could concentrate.

‘Okay let me just tell Art-‘

‘Art’s there? Get him to come, he knows the way.’

‘Okay.’

Whilst you explained to Liam the rough situation, Art ran to your flat to fetch his car. With how little time it took him to return you wondered why he hadn’t become a runner instead? He must have done track, at-least.

——————————————————————

It was an hour drive to Patrick’s girls place. 45 minutes on Sundays. You waited until Art had gotten to the motorway before you asked the million dollar question.

‘So… Patrick said you knew the way. How? This is nowhere near anyone’s house that we know.’

Art chuckled, his delicate hand barely touching the wheel when he casually changed lanes at 70mph. His car smelt like him, you tried not to breathe heavier to encase yourself in his scent more intensely. It was growing difficult.

‘Well, I actually … dated Hannah before he did.’

He adjusted his mirror to watch the arsehole behind drive up his ass, for a moment you noticed him looking at the window. If Art ‘his mother could have knitted him’ Donaldson was about to roll the window down to flip someone off you were in for a treat.

‘How long for? Did Patrick even ask bef-‘

‘Does Patrick ever ask you for permission to do something?’

No. Not once.

‘It doesn’t bother me. We weren’t serious and it was a few years before he asked her out.’

You both envied and pitied this Hannah girl who Art seemed to care so little for.

‘Is it not a bit weird though? I wouldn’t want my exes fucking my friends.’

Art glanced over to you, he was driving at 60 again so you weren’t as inclined to grasp the door handle. He looked a little puzzled at your remarks or maybe it was amusement. ‘You thought we’d have different types?’

‘Yes, one hundred percent.’

‘We usually do. Hannah is probably more Patrick’s type.’

Your pity for Hannah grew once again.

‘But clearly, not more compatible.’

When you looked at Art he was frowning. He might have been looking at the road but you knew he was remembering something, something bitter.

You reread Patrick’s text: ‘She’s a lot to deal with.’ but that could mean anything from she takes too long getting ready to she needs to be kept away from others. Once Art said you were close you felt a little uneasy, like you needed to mentally prepare to deal with this girl. If she’d frightened Patrick she had to have something very wrong with her.

‘Art?’

He looked out of it.

‘Is there anything I should know, anything I should maybe avoid saying or doing with this… Hannah? Patrick sounded - I don’t wanna say scared bu-‘

‘Oh he’ll be scared,’ you felt genuine dread for a moment until you saw Art looked solemn not worried. He hid it behind a forced chuckle, as if what he was about to say was a funny anecdote he whipped out at parties to break the ice. ‘She can be a lot.’ There goes that word again. ‘She’s probably the only person I’ve ever met who puts tennis above - well - breathing and she thinks if you’re not playing tennis twelve hours a day everyday you’re letting yourself and her down.’

‘Sounds obsessive.’

‘I did warn him.’

As you pulled up to Hannah’s house you felt a twinge, or an aggressive increase, of guilt for your comment the night before. You should have saved your judgement for Hannah, clearly tennis was her entire life and Art had disagreed with her. Patrick certainly would.

He was sat on her doorstep, like a lost puppy waiting for its owner, but he still gave a quick wave before walking over.

‘Thank you!’ Patrick exclaimed once he was in the car. ‘You two just saved me, I was about to let her coach me just so she’d stop fucking yelling.’ He was sweating and slightly out of breath, poor thing.

‘Art, don’t you wanna go say hi?’

‘Funny…’

Chapter 5

Masterlist

Taglist: @gatorgirl007 @imblushingrn

[pugh-bug]

No.42 Chapter 5

Art Donaldson x reader slow burn friends to lovers

As always I hope you enjoy! 🍉✨ My taglist is always open

Part 4

——————————————————————

‘Pass me the sauce now bitch!’

Patrick responded by throwing a pillow at your head. Mature.

‘You’d never talk to Art like that.’ He looked amused for a moment, a smirk brewing as his eyes darted from Art’s face to yours. The three of you were eye deep in miso sauce, spring rolls and pad thai - Art’s treat. It was almost strange, seeing Art eat take out in your cosy flat knowing he probably had a maid growing up. You’d once heard Liam say Art’s parents place was obnoxiously bigger than even Tashi Duncan’s, as if you needed further convincing of his affluence.

Still, he was settled. He seemed it. He always thanked you for washing up or tidying, if he wasn’t offering or doing it himself, as if he was content with living lesser than his other peers. Of course they all had maids for the sort of things you and Patrick did, or pretended to do on lazy days, but Art never announced judgement. Besides his constant bantering with Patrick and the occasional dig at you for not being too sporty, Art was always pleasant. Pleasant or impressively good at bottling things in.

‘That’s because Y/N,’ Art raised his eyebrow at Patrick’s smirking face. ‘Actually has manners, she just doesn’t waste them on you.’ The pair beamed at each other, as they always did when they were ‘arguing’ over you. It was almost expected for you now, owed even. You loved it.

——————————————————————

‘I don’t get this movie, why’s it just talking?’

You’d decided to put ‘When Harry Met Sally’ on as a break from the constant tennis. The background drum of your life had become the incessant whacking of tennis balls, if it didn’t make Art so content you’d have quickly deleted SkySports.

Patrick half watched half texted his now ex girlfriend back, to your dismay. It wasn’t long before he’d finished his food, shovelling it in like an animal as always, and announced he was going to bed. He ruffled your hair in his brotherly way before returning to his room. The door had barely closed before Art paused the movie from his spot on the floor.

‘Do you agree?’

You looked down at Art’s inquisitive face and the charming face of 80s Meg Ryan, knowing what he meant. Harry had just made his ‘men and women can’t be friends’ speech. You shoved the blanket off your hot legs to escape the extra heat and settled into your couch position comfortably.

‘Do you see me fucking Pat?’

Art grinned widely, almost boyishly, at your remark. You noticed he seemed to get almost giddy whenever you were a little crude, like you both intimidated and entertained him simultaneously. He hung his head, still smiling, before shaking it. ‘No but just - just tell me. I wanna know what you really think.’

No man ever wanted to know how you really thought more than Art. He’d asked you more about your beliefs and emotions than a reporter on the cusp of ‘making it big’. You seemed almost to be his scoop, his challenge, his big win but you wondered what would happen when you ran out of answers.

He was waiting for you to speak. Eager. You cast your mind back to all of your past male friendships, the times they hit on you unexpectedly or bullied you to ‘flirt’ or worst of all: told you they’d never seen you as a friend at all. That one always hurt. Most of those friendships had hurt and most of them had left Patrick waving the ‘not all men’ flag proudly as he stood victorious. The last man standing. Your last good, platonic best friend.

‘You can ask all you want Donaldson, I don’t see Patrick that way.’

He wasn’t completely satisfied with your answer, or he made sure he wasn’t just to encourage his own bad behaviour.

‘Not once? You’re telling me you two never had too much to drink or got dared? Not even spin the bottle when you were like 14?’

‘Sorry to disappoint.’

He looked elated and horrified all at once. The man was desperate and for a moment you couldn’t tell if he was devastated more for Patrick or for you.

‘What made you turn the poor guy down?’

Oh. For Patrick.

‘What makes you so sure he asked me out? Didn’t you watch the movie?’

Art finished his last spring roll, shaking his head. ‘I watched the movie that said ‘men and women can’t be friends’ a hundred times.’ He crossed his legs, his baggy t shirt exposing his collarbone. Ashamed as you were, you couldn’t deny the urge you had to just bite and kiss him. That made your following question all the more ironic.

‘So you don’t think men and women can just be friends?’

You made sure to ask it in such a way that implied he was wrong, foolish for believing something so immature despite your very thoughts proving him right.

‘I think if she’s attracted to guys and he likes girls it can’t ever be just a friendship. Sorry.’

‘Hmm.’

You listened to the sad sound of Patrick’s fan fighting for its life against the heatwave. Every time you and Art had a moment of silence the whir of the fan provided ambience.

‘You wanna wash up?’ Art asked, as if he was offering a special treat of some kind and not your least favourite task of all time.

‘Not even a little bit.’

That was when he did it, what until that point only Patrick had been honoured enough to do, he ruffled your hair. A small gesture? Absolutely. One you’d forget? Unlikely.

Once Art was elbow deep in washing up liquid he asked you a question he’d been longing to ask you for days. Did you enjoy living with him?

‘Of course I do.’ You couldn’t help but scoff at his question. Was he truly that insecure? Still, you revelled in messing with him a little - just for fun. ‘I’m happy for Pat, he always wanted a boyfriend to move in. He finally committed.’ That earned you a splash of noodle water to the face. A long pause followed, one that lead you to believe it was time for bed.

‘I am grateful,’ Art sighed, his voice low and his eyes down. ‘I know I could have asked my parents to get me my own place but …’ You watched him stop scrubbing the plate in his hand all together, his eyes unfocused. ‘I don’t like being alone.’

With his back to you, Art stacked the pots with intense precision. You weren’t sure what to say except:

‘Who does?’

Chapter 6

Masterlist

Taglist: @gatorgirl007 @imblushingrn @soy-garbage

[pugh-bug]

No.42 Chapter 3

Art Donaldson x reader slow burn friends to lovers

Sorry for the wait! The day I set aside to get loads done on this I ended up having to visit a family member in hospital, he’s much much better now. Anyway oversharing. I hope you enjoy this chapter! I loved writing it. Let me know if you wanna be added to my tag list 💕

Part 1

Part 2

——————————————————————

You woke up on Saturday morning to a missed text from Art.

7:58am - text from Art

Sorry if I woke you when I left. Gone to play hard court today hope you slept alright on that couch.

The sudden realisation that you were not in fact in your bed hit you almost as hard as the loose spring in your back. You groaned, reaching for some leftover pizza. None left. You groaned again.

9:26am - text to Art

Did you eat all your pizza?

To your surprise the boy replied immediately, showcasing his ability to read your mind.

9:27am - text from Art

Afraid so :) Look in the fridge if you’re so hungry

The fridge, despite the tightness of your apartment, had never looked so far away. You’d rather wait the nine hours for Art to return and pass food to you through a funnel. He could create some sort of feeding tube, perhaps he could fashion it out of one of the dozen tennis ball containers Patrick left lying around. You hadn’t seen the floor in years.

It took you almost thirty minutes to peel your lifeless body off the sofa and trudge the eight metres to the fridge. Before all of your fingers had grasped the cold metal you caught it. The smell.

The month you and Patrick were flat hunting had been a difficult one, full of stress and disappointments. A week before you found the flat you now called home, Art had found crying outside your favourite pancake place. You didn’t know if Patrick had texted him, giving him a heads up of your less than stellar mood and where to find you, or if he had simply ran into you by accident but one minute he was there.

The two of you had shared your favourite, strawberry and kiwi pancakes with whipped cream, despite having never spent time alone together previously and it hadn’t been awkward. Any awkwardness had come from your inability to keep your emotions to yourself and not a mess for all to see. Art hadn’t minded in fact, unbeknownst to you, he’d greatly enjoyed your company and had had a shitty day himself before your talk.

10:02am - text to Art

Did I ever mention I love you living here??

Sitting proudly in the fridge, in between Patrick’s abandoned pasta and your pathetic amount of cheese, was a plate of strawberry and kiwi pancakes. You looked at the pile of washing up and noticed essence of strawberry still dripping from the chopping board next to a whisk and bowl.

‘God damn…’ you actually moaned aloud at the first bite. Not only were they delicious but they’d been made especially for you for no reason. No one had ever made you breakfast before, unless you counted the time Patrick threw a box of muffins at your head to wake you up for school. It often didn’t take a great amount of effort to impress you, something maybe a therapist needed to hear about, but you felt justified being impressed with Art for this. They were truly wonderful.

10:20am - text from Art

Come thank me in person if you want, Liam is taking another break

You couldn’t help but smile at his little dig at Liam, whether intentional or not it told you everything you needed to know: Art was the better player. Art was always the better player, he usually wiped the floor with anyone who wasn’t Patrick.

It was only a twenty minute walk to Stanford and although you were ashamed to admit it … you had nothing better to do on a Saturday morning. You decided to pack your laptop, so you could kid yourself that this was a productive thing and not just an excuse to watch Art sweat. The damn thing wouldn’t even get opened and you knew it.

It was a hot day, even for Summer it was unforgiving. You pulled at your tank top, attempting to negate any sweat stains by leaving a gap between your wet skin and the thin fabric. No such luck, the car window reflection of yourself showed you the harsh reality. How did Art do it? How did he look sexy whilst sweating? You felt like a drowned dog, heaving and panting in the back of a muggy car trying to see past the drops of sweat in your lashes.

You reached Stanford earlier than you expected and to your great satisfaction, saw no Art present. That gave you ample time to tidy yourself up in the toilets before meeting him. The college had crisp air con, much better than the pathetic excuse for a fan you and Patrick would crowd round on hot days.

Art didn’t text you directions because he didn’t need to. He knew you’d visited Patrick enough times to know your way around all the tennis courts, hard or otherwise. It didn’t take you long to find the right one.

‘Fuck!’

You scanned the indoor courts for the source of the outburst. Art, third court from the left and he was not happy. For a moment you teetered on your feet, unsure if it was better to wait a bit before interfering with their clearly tense match. Before you could make a decision however-

‘Y/N!’

Liam spotted you, putting his racket down immediately to wave you over. He’d once gotten drunk and told Patrick how much he liked you but that it had been so long ago that you’d almost forgotten and his new girlfriend was a tennis star. On the ‘up and up’ as Patrick’s dad would say.

Although Liam’s hug was intense, sweaty and pretty uncomfortable you were too focused on Art to cringe. He was rubbing his face with his hands, looking more pained than you’d ever seen him. You didn’t know why. He’d been playing well before you arrived.

Noticing the object of your frown, Liam suddenly grinned even wider. ‘He just lost the third set.’ Art took a large swig of water, not noticing the way you stared in awe at the angle of his jaw and the wet curls on his forehead. He was too focused on the racket he was clutching fiercely enough to force the veins of his forearm to pull your attention.

‘I know it’s not over yet,’ Liam panted slightly, clearly Art had still run him ragged. ‘But this never happens - never.’ In the years they’d played together, Liam had never beaten Art. Not in singles or doubles. Not on hard court. Not on clay or grass. Never. You were not convinced, however, that poor Liam had never won a set before so you voiced your opinion without thinking.

‘Art, you can still win. It’s fine!’

Art shot you a glare. It didn’t last long but it burned you a little, the intensity of it. He wanted so badly for you to be right, for it to not matter to him. ‘It’s just a game’ well it wasn’t to Art. It was his entire future and if he lost - if he lost ever - it was him throwing that future away.

‘You’ll win the fourth.’ You smiled, reassuringly. That lifted Art a little and bruised his partner.

‘I thought we were stopping for a bit since Y/N’s here.’ Art watched your face for a reaction, daring you to decide for the three of them. Without removing your eyes from Art you smiled. ‘No, no. I’ll watch.’

You watched them play for another hour and a half. Art just won the fourth set, by the narrowest of margins but that gave him the confidence boost he badly needed to destroy Liam in the fifth. Th-wack! Smash. Th-wack! Slice. Th-wack! Topspin. You were honestly confused why Liam bothered serving. If it had been you - well - let’s just say the floor would have made a more than sufficient bed. It was certainly making a sufficient seat for you to watch Liam get massacred. God was Art good.

‘You win…’ Liam was dripping, his white shirt almost see-through. ‘I need a sec…’ So did you. It was practically a workout just watching them. You clapped as Art walked over to you, looking very satisfied with his win. ‘You happy now?’

‘Very.’

As Liam rung out his shirt, Art gestured to the court with his racket. ‘You and me. One game.’ His eyes were full of amusement.

‘Ha.’

You’d die.

‘One set?’ He smirked, desperate for you to humour him. Not today. ‘Absolutely not.’ You laughed, standing up.

‘Actually, I’d love lunch right now,’ Liam’s suggestion was a necessity. ‘After a shower.’ And so was his afterthought. They both needed one desperately. Art’s hair didn’t even look blonde anymore.

‘Yeah you two go, I’ll wait then we can get food. I’m not super hungry but I can always eat.’

Liam was already rushing to the showers, practically leaving a pool of loser evidence behind him but Art heard. He looked like he was waiting for something from you and for a moment, in your haze, you wondered what. Oh!

‘The pancakes,’

‘Hm.’

‘De-licious.’

‘Good.’

You could tell he was happier with your compliment than he was letting on. The truth was Art craved praise, mostly for tennis but for anything he accomplished. It didn’t matter if he’d made a three tier cake, organised a trip or won every set in a match he wanted to know he’d done good.

‘Seriously, how did you even find the recipe?’ The two of you walked together out of the hall. ‘I’ve been asking the staff for years, pretty sure they hate me now actually.’

‘I have my ways.’ He grinned. ‘Now, I’m gonna go shower-‘

‘Good, you stink.’

‘Fuck off.’

Chapter 4

Masterlist

Taglist: @gatorgirl007 @imblushingrn

[pugh-bug]

No.42 Chapter 7

Art Donaldson x reader slow burn

If you’re still reading this series I appreciate you so much 🫶🏻 this is a pretty angsty chapter - vague implications of an eating disorder.

Part 6

——————————————————————

You had twelve texts, mostly from Liam, with the most recent being:

11:49am - Text from Liam

Thanks for coming you looked great haha

get home safe ok ;)

The wink you barely registered in your exhausted morning state, instead you rolled over to see Art asleep on your floor. He was in last nights clothes, as were you, and curled up in the foetus position. The temperature outside had finally dropped enough degrees to let a light breeze through your open window, brushing Art’s curls off his cheek. He looked angelic.

‘He might need you more.’

What did he need you for? He had Art for friendship, Liam for rivalry, his family for financial stability and himself setting his future aspirational lifestyle in motion. All of these thoughts swam in your head like hunting gators as you listened to Art’s peaceful breathing. What was he dreaming about? You hoped something good, your recent dreams had caused you nothing but high blood pressure.

CLANG!

Ah…Patrick. Morning coffee time.

‘Hmmm?’ Art mumbled, opening his eyes slowly. The poor boy must have the worst hangover of anyone’s life (you’d say of his but it was likely Art’s first real one). ‘How are we feeling?’ You cooed, sitting cross legged on your bed staring down at him. For a moment you received no response other than groaning, as Art clambered to a seating position. His eyes were still foggy when he cleared his throat to ask what time it was.

‘It’s 12.’

Another groan. ‘Shit…where are my - I’m sorry why am I in your room?’ He looked around frantically for his phone or water, so you gestured to your nightstand which stocked both. You smiled slightly at Art’s sleepy, confused voice. ‘You tell me,’ you shrugged, trying to remember. ‘We probably got out the Uber and just collapsed in here instead of your room cos it’s closer…Pat’s slept on the couch maybe?’

Art ran his fingers through his hair, straining his neck up with wide but distant eyes. He looked, for a moment, like he’d stopped breathing. Like he’d severed the oxygen to his brain and he was going to sit and wait to crack. His nails were even starting to dig in on his own arm.

‘Art.’ You snapped your fingers in his face and he seemed to come back from wherever he’d been. ‘Are you okay?’ Art solemnly took in your concerned frown for a moment before standing up and saying ‘Thanks for looking after me.’ on his way out.

——————————————————————

Art had been too exhausted to go to practise but not too exhausted, apparently, to do press ups in the kitchen. You walked in, after your shower, expecting to find the two of them watching tv not working out - well Patrick wasn’t. ‘I know I know, you try telling him.’ Was all Patrick offered in response to your look of total disbelief.

‘Twenty six…twenty seven…twenty eight…’

Any other day you might have been impressed but this? This was ridiculous.

‘Art, what are you doing?’

‘Twenty nine…thirty…thirty one…’

He was sweating, not as much as when he played tennis but he’d need a shower. His lips, in between counts, were trembling ever so slightly from the effort as he pushed and pushed to fight against sleep. It was a sad sight, one you wished to dissolve one way or another.

‘Art, this is fucking ridiculous. You’ve barely slept you’re hungover you just need one lazy day.‘

No response.

‘This isn’t normal.’

Patrick gave you one last look of defeat before going for his shower, clearly desperate to leave the room. You hesitated before kneeling on the floor beside Art’s head.

‘Thirty seven…thirty eight…’

His body was giving up on him - just screaming at him to let it rest.

‘Thirty…nine…’

When he got to forty you hoped you’d see a flicker of satisfaction on his face, followed by a prompt end but no. No, he just kept going.

‘Forty two…forty thr’

‘Fucking stop!’ You yelled and he did. Finally. Art dusted off his hands and sat up, staring at you in complete silence. He looked almost horrified at the intrusion.

‘I’m not your Mum but you need to look after yourself, you’re never going to win matches if you turn up to them half dead because you refuse to relax.’ You sighed, heavily, waiting for the lengthy disagreement Art would throw at you. The defensiveness. It never came.

‘I know.’ He pulled his knees up to his chest and stared at the poorly woven carpet, looking lost. ‘I just…I can’t afford to take days off I’m not Patrick. I have to work and work and work at it constantly. If I get into the habit of taking days off whenever I feel a bit shitty what will that get me? It won’t get me into Challengers, it won’t make me win any Opens. I won’t win Wimbledon Y/N,’ Art looked up at you, his eyes glassy. ‘What will it have all been for if…if after everything I’m just average?’

‘You’re telling me you can’t win Wimbledon if when you’re hungover you watch tv instead of working out?’ You rubbed your face, studying his for any negative reaction. ‘Sometimes one small set back is all it takes.’ He looked utterly defeated, you’d never seen someone look so low. It was hard for you to understand the tennis obsession but of course, like most things, you knew it wasn’t as simple as it seemed.

‘Have you eaten yet?’

He shook his head.

‘Well, you really should - actually you will. There should be leftovers.’

You managed to convince Art to eat and drink plenty of water before he resisted. ‘Maybe go back to bed?’ Was your advice - which he did not take. Patrick was half gaming half texting girls and only chimed in to make the odd sarcastic comment. He didn’t hear what Art said next.

‘Y/N,’ When you took your eyes away from your coffee you saw Art’s hand trailing closer to yours, his eyes apologetic. ‘I think you’re kinder than anyone I’ve ever met.’ Before you could say anything he was coughing, interrupting himself before he could share further. It took a while for his diaphragm to ease up but by then the moment had passed. His hand had returned to his side of the table.

Chapter 8

Masterlist

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