@tinytennisskirt made this for sweet tooth with a random oc x Patrick ages ago cause I fell in love with the fic. Trying to ignore all the flaws I notice now lmao
Summary: based on a dialogue request- Art has been in love with you since he met you at twelve. He's been pining for six years, so it kills him when you get a boyfriend over the summer. He's your friend, he's supposed to be happy for you. Instead, he's just hurt. And jealous. Too blinded by it to see the way your boyfriend is really treating you. After a climactic event outside of a party, you're freed from it all. And Art is right there, waiting, the way he's always been.
MAJOR WARNINGS: violence, abusive relationships, mentions of unwanted sex/attempts at unwanted sex. a fight. mentions of injuries, nothing too graphic, just bruises.
Warnings: pining, yearning, angst, jealousy, mentions of drinking, a kiss. badly edited.
Kat Zimmerman had nothing on you, that was for sure. Only a few nights after his little learning experience with Patrick, you came into the boyās lives and their worlds were forever changed. Artās more so. It was that one fateful day when you were picking out a tennis racket, the new girl at MRTA, and those two little boys knew they had to befriend you before Jake Dalton did. Both little boys, stumbling over each other, made their way over to the rackets and said hi, overlapping pre-pubescent voices telling you their names. And you smiled, hair braided, cheeks pink and rosy, exchanging their names for yours.Ā
And you were friends. Thatās how it was. You were friends. You, Patrick, and Art. But more so you and Art because Patrick didnāt know how he felt about being friends with girls. Especially when you were such a girl. Patrick didnāt have a painful little boy crush on you the way Art did. You told Art his hair would be perfect for pigtails and heād let you do what you wanted, clips and bows and all, just so youād touch him. He bragged to Patrick later that night. Patrick just laughed at him. āShe put bows in your hair, dude. That doesnāt count as touching.ā He was humbled.Ā
Patrick did feel a little different when fourteen rolled around and you had boobs, but Art was the same, if not deeper in it for you. You remained their friend. You were always around, playing with Artās hair on the bleachers or studying with them, making sure they actually paid attention. You went to all of Artās games and maybe, for a few split seconds, he thought maybe you liked him back. But itās a tale as old as time. He couldnāt ever be sure, so why would he tell you and potentially ruin everything? If he told you and it wasnāt reciprocated, he could say goodbye to all the casual touching and the things you granted him somewhat platonically.Ā
Patrick was one of the only people who knew how bad Art had it because even after their first little incident, Patrick had once or twice heard or walked in on Art masturbating and it was a little obvious who he was thinking about. It was fine, it was nothing new.Ā
One thing was so very clear and that this was all just pining. Pining after you, pulling strings to be closer to you, to hang out with you. Cancelling plans, switching partners, everything. Heād go insane when your hand brushed his, he was there for you every time you needed him. And by twelfth grade, he could say he loved you. Itād been six years of pining, he knew it to be true. So when you called him over the summer to say you had a boyfriend, it just about killed him.Ā
āHeās really nice and heās a tennis enjoyer, but not a player. Itās refreshing to find someone who doesnāt know every single term and I get to be the smart one for once,ā you gushed to him. He was your best friend after all. Youād been friends, best friends, for six years. Art was glad you managed six years without any real crushes for more than a day and he could handle those because they werenāt real, but this was very real. Or you said so. āGod, I canāt believe it, he just asked for my number two weeks ago and now weāve been together a week. Itās so surreal.āĀ
āThatās great, Iām happy for you,ā Art said through clenched teeth. Six years of wanting you and this guy asked for your number and had you as his girlfriend in under a week. He wondered if youād kissed him. He remembered when you had your first kiss just after his. Just about killed him though heād just kissed Amy White two days before and bragged about it. He hoped it would make you jealous, but you had your own beau. This was worse than that. You were going to Stanford with him in a month or two, he thought if there was any time to make that change and tell you, it would be when he saw you next. And there wouldnāt be any college dating scandals and maybe he could live happily and find some girl to forget you with, though he knew he couldnāt.
āSo itās serious?āĀ
āVery. Iām excited.ā Just about took him out.Ā
He didnāt eat for maybe two days. Would have been longer if Patrick didnāt come over and force-feed him nachos. Art told him the whole situation and Patrick, who had, of course, been rooting for you and Art since finding out Art liked you, was pretty pissed off about it. The two went back and forth just emphasizing āsix yearsā. Six years of what? Six years of you hugging him and playing with his hair, going to movies with him, helping him study, spending time with him alone for you to just go and find some guy on a whim? And start dating him? You were all Art had wanted and it was then that he confessed that he was probably in love with you to Patrick. Patrick wasnāt surprised, then went and stole some beers from a friend, saying they needed to drink about it.Ā
You still called as you usually did and Art never got to really feel himself heal when every phone call was an update and a fresh wound. The poor boy was yours and you werenāt his. There was nothing he could say to change that, he was a good friend. And he wanted you to be happy, so he kept his mouth shut. You talked about dates and how good of a kisser he was though you wished he used less tongue sometimes and every word was a papercut that added up to a bigger hurt. He had never wanted anyone the same way he wanted you and he was so sure he couldnāt. He buried his face in his pillow and got so frustrated it drove him to tears. His stomach hurt constantly and he felt like his heart was being pulled down to his stomach.Ā
He was a little scared of how heād act when you talked to him in person. He just finished settling into campus, his dorm room. Youād done the same with the agreement to meet him for coffee at the campus diner. You were still you, he noted, still painfully beautiful. And you were two months into dating this guy Greg. He sounded like a dick. You said he liked country music and he wasnāt going to post-secondary, he was older and going to a trade school. An asshole. Art did his best to change the topic.Ā
āMmm, so they have campus events all the time, theyāre showing E.T. this Friday if you want to go.ā You said. āWe should.āĀ
āWe should talk them into playing Mac and Me after. A real movie.āĀ
āShut up, oh my god.ā You laughed. Your laugh was one of his favourite things. He found it just a little painful to be here with you, knowing you couldnāt be the way you used to be now that you had a boyfriend. āDo you want to come with me to E.T. or not though, Iām terrified of new people.āĀ
āNo, yeah, Iāll go,ā he nodded.Ā
Your boyfriend visited on Thursday, so he didnāt see you then. Usually, you called him regardless of being on the same campus, but you didnāt. And then when you said youād meet Art on Friday, you didnāt show up until the movie was half over. Art sat there, watching the movie on a stupid lawn chair with stupid Reece's Pieces and you came and joined him, apologetic. Said you were with Greg and Art could only imagine what that meant. It was too dark for him to notice how red your wrist was.Ā
It was Artās first step to breaking. The movie finished and he walked you back to your dorm. āJust saying, if you have plans with your boyfriend, donāt make plans with me. Iām not that kind of guy,ā he reasoned, heading up the stairs with you. He tried not to sound bitter. He was only half-bitter anyway, he was mostly genuine.Ā
You sighed, rubbing your left eye just a little. āI know, Iām sorry.āĀ
āDoes he know about me?ā You were quiet. Too quiet. āY/N?āĀ
You bite your lip, āHe knows weāre friends. He doesnāt know the full extent and he doesnāt need to! Thereās nothing to worry about, but I just donāt want to worry him. He knows youāre my friend, he doesnāt knowā¦ everything.āĀ
Art pressed his hand to his forehead, āIām a secret, thatās crazy, thatāsā¦ fine, I guess. I donāt want to ruin anything for you.āĀ
āYou couldnāt.ā You told him. āHeās secure. Heās good. And Iām sorry again for being late, Iāll make it up to you with coffee tomorrow if youāll let me.āĀ
Art nodded in response. How could he not forgive you? How could you stand here and be so beautiful and so apologetic and have him not forgive you? So he swallowed all his words for the thousandth time. āCoffee sounds good. Bring doughnuts. Campus library?āĀ
āCampus libraryā¦ā
ā3 pm?āĀ
āPerfect. See you then.ā You kept your sleeve over your wrist which was still pinkened. āI really am sorry, Art.ā
He smiled just a little, forced, āItās okay. I promise. But Iāll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Y/N.āĀ
You said goodnight back and slipped into your dorm room again. Greg had gone out to the local bar, he didnāt come back until 2am when he said heād be back at 12. Came back drunk and wanting to kiss you quite badly, smelling awfully of whiskey and weed.Ā
Art wanted to forgive you for it all, but he felt like he couldnāt. Maybe he was bitter. He was bitter that you found someone and he didnāt, he was bitter that you had someone who wasnāt him. Heād yet to meet Greg, but he wondered if you smiled at him with your eyes... or when something funny was said if you'd lean into his shoulder while laughing. He wondered if you were the same, or if it felt the same when you were alone with him- like you could say anything and be unjudged. And that any darkness could be made a joke and made better just by talking for hours. He wondered if Greg had any of that the way he had. But Greg probably had that and more and Art would have to deal with that. He felt his heart physically slow its beating as it slowly, but surely, was beginning to crack.Ā
You met Art the next day and of course, he noticed the hickey on your neck. It made his stomach do flips and tie itself in knots and he wanted to get up and leave, but you had the doughnuts and coffee. And he was supposed to be happy for you. He had to remind himself of that. He looked at you, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear and laughed and engaged with what he had said and you were still the most gorgeous girl on the planet. Nothing could or ever would change that. He was still head over heels and he couldnāt help it. He would call himself pathetic, he would degrade himself for still wanting you, but after six years, he couldnāt get away from it.Ā
Greg was over quite a bit. You never called when he was around. You said youād come hang out when Patrick was in town but you were late again, said you tripped down the stairs and the boys thought it was some excuse for sex with Greg, but you had the injuries to prove it, so neither of them could really be mad. āIt hurts like a bitch,ā you huffed, sitting down with them. āBut itās fine. We should drink tonight.āĀ
āYour dorm room or mine?ā Art replied, a smile on his face. He was happy about an excuse to drink, he was happy you werenāt late because of Greg, and he was happy you were here.Ā
Your eyes widened and you answered much too quickly. āYours.āĀ
The three of you headed back to Artās dorm. You lay on his bed, checking your phone every minute or so. It looked like you were getting an abundance of messages, but you were never texting back. Your phone rang twice before you silenced it. The boys chalked it up to Greg and the obsessions of an early relationship, but it wasnāt that early. At one point you tossed your phone off the end of his bed and on top of Artās laundry. āPlease, please, please, pass the vodka,ā you enthused. Art and Patrick chuckled, watching you take a pretty large swig.Ā
āMight want to slow down,ā Patrick said, looking at Art, then back at you. You were out of the three of you, the person who hardly ever drank. And here you were chugging it like water. āDonāt want to return you to your boyfriend off your ass.āĀ
āItās fine,ā you replied. āHeās fine, itās all fine.āĀ
āYeah, I see that,ā Patrick replied, taking the vodka back from you. Art grabbed it out of his hand and took a swig equal to yours, trying to drown out the way he was feeling. You were in his bed, talking about your boyfriend. It was fucked. And it felt awful. He looked at you, clouded by alcohol and god, he wished he kissed you in high school. He wished he told you how he felt. If he had, maybe you wouldnāt be so far out of reach. It took him all his strength not to tell you that while drunk. Instead he just laid on the bed next to you, laughing with you about some stupid shit Patrick said.Ā
āThis is why youāre not in college, Pat,ā you laughed, out of breath. You had turned on your side, your hand was resting on Artās upper arm. Patrick just groaned, laughing as he turned his head down to the floor. Art was too aware of your hand on his arm. The way it moved up and down almost the way a person would soothe another, but it was you. And this never meant anything, so why should Art let himself believe it did now?Ā
āYouāre so smart, tell us how good you are with context clues, go-ā Patrick teased. But your eyes met the clock on Artās desk. Your eyes widened a little. Youād lost track of time.Ā
āOh my god,ā you said, a little bit of panic in your voice. āItās almost midnight, fuck, I have to go.ā You jolted upright and literally climbed over Art to get off his bed. āIām so sorry, guys, Iāll see you tomorrow, please text me.ā You grabbed your phone and your bag and in seconds you were gone.Ā
Art just shut his eyes and sighed. āI feel that,ā Patrick nodded. āWhat the fuck was that?āĀ
āGreg beckons,ā Art replied bitingly. āCanāt be late to see Greg!āĀ
āFucking Greg,ā Patrick grunted. āYou want the vodka back?āĀ
āYes please,ā Art groaned, covering his face with his pillow.Ā
You returned a little tipsy to Greg, who was tipsier. You used to think he was really great. He was funny and nice and he helped you drown out your feelings for Art. It felt like a step forward, progressive, real. Like a real relationship. One you knew you needed so maybe liking Art with no proof he liked you back would be easier. It was for a moment, but bliss is temporary.Ā
āYouāre back, doll,ā Greg said, greeting you on messed up bedsheets, not even bothering to meet you halfway. āIāve had a night. Cāmere, I missed you.ā Youāre afraid to say youāre tired and you just want to sleep. You slink into bed with him. He smells like whiskey again. Itās stronger, more potent, and he needs a shower. The second youāre in bed with him, heās on top of you. āSo why donāt you tell me why you didnāt answer my fucking texts, huh? Or when I called you four fucking times. You know how embarrassing to call your girl and she doesnāt pick up, huh? Had to do that four fucking times in front of my friends, were you trying to embarrass me?ā His hand is tight on your arm, leaving bruises, the other hand is on your hair as he keeps himself propped up. Itās pulling and you feel the headache starting.Ā
āN-no, Iām sorry,ā you manage. āGreg, youāre hurting me, youāre pulling my hair.āĀ
āThought you liked that?ā He smirked. Not once had you ever liked having your hair pulled. Not once had you ever said that to him in any context.Ā
āYouāre hurting me!ā You repeated. His hand eased out of your hair but his grip on your arm turned into a grip on your shoulder, just as hard. It hurt. You could feel it bruised already. āGreg, off, please.āĀ
He made a noise sort of like a whine, his breath horrible. āBut I missed you, thought we could have some fun when you came back.ā He kissed you. He kissed you. He kissed you. You didnāt want to kiss him, you wanted air, you didnāt want his hand down your waistband. āDonāt fight, pretty, come on. I know you want this.āĀ
No, you didnāt. You didnāt let it get so far without a fight. You were left to sleep alone as he stormed out. You tended to the injuries from earlier, the āstairsā incident, plus the new injuries youād have to make stories for because youād be hanging out with Art and Patrick again. But the bruise that was already forming on your cheekbone looked bad enough that you texted Art saying you couldnāt make it tomorrow and you cried into your knees.Ā
Makeup didnāt do a very good job, especially when every time something healed, there was something new. You did see Art a few days later when Greg had gone āfishingā with a friend. The bruise on your cheek had faded, but not enough. Makeup hardly fixed it either. āBall to the face,ā you sighed, pressing your lips into a straight line when Art noticed it. He grimaced. āI mean at least my partner has upped her miles per hour but itāsā¦ā
āOuch,āĀ
āYeah,ā you chuckled, walking next to him. āSo I was thinking maybe we could hang out Tuesday night.āĀ
He looked at you, āYou have something in mind?ā As if he could say no.Ā
āYes, actually. Itās like an improv show thing, itāll probably be awful. We can get candy and make fun of them behind their backs.ā You smiled just a little.Ā
He grinned, bowing his head just a little, āSounds perfect.āĀ
āThought so,ā you laughed, nudging him a little so he walked off the sidewalk and onto the grass. He tried to nudge you back, but you dodged him and he nearly tripped down the hill you were walking next to. You laughed, but it only laughed so long as his expression turned into the determination to get you back for it. He chased you down the hill until it became a rolling matter, both of you falling into the lush grass and rolling down the last bit of it. He rolled into you, turning it into a chaotic tumble that slowed to a halt with him on top of you. Art breathed out hard, eyes meeting yours, his breath smelling like the mint gum he was chewing. You smiled first with your eyes and then the grin spread up your face. āOuch,ā you mumbled, almost a whisper. His eyes lingered on yours, his face hovering just above you.Ā
His eyes flickered from your eyes to your lips and his brain told him to move, but he didnāt want to. But he had to. You were taken. It would be wrong. But you didnāt move either. You were both breathing hard, smiling at your compromising position until Art did move. Though maybe you didnāt want him to. āYouāre okay?āĀ
āI will be,ā you replied. He helped you up and once again, your faces were just inches apart. It was dangerous, wanting you.Ā
Greg threatened obscene things in the face of if you ever were to leave him. Heād tell your secrets, said heād end his life, said heād hurt you. You cried. A lot. For hours, later. He was terrifying. You cried so hard your eyes were completely bloodshot the next day. Your girlfriends were concerned, but you played it off as allergies.Ā
You saw Art another day and it was good to talk to him about everything and nothing. He was a good distraction from the throbbing pain in your ribs from Gregās reaction to you mentioning a celebrity crush. He had been drunk. Too drunk. And you couldnāt get away fast enough.Ā
Tuesday rolled around. You kept your hair down to hide the bruise on your temple. It still ached, along with where your hair was pulled once again when you refused to have sex with Greg again. He was sitting bitter on your bed, angry still. You put on your jean shorts and a t-shirt. āWhere you going dressed like that?āĀ
You looked up, āLike what?āĀ
āWhy the fuck do you instantly talk back? Whatās your fucking problem. Iām asking you where you think youāre going dressed like a slut?āĀ
Your eyebrows furrowed, āJust getting dessert with Bea from my tennis program. Sheās got this-āĀ
āGo change.ā
You werenāt looking for a fight. You put on jeans and a sweater. It made you five minutes late to meet Art and you hated it. You looked at Art with sadness in your eyes and he recognized it but didnāt know what it was. āAre you okay?ā He knew you.Ā
āYeah, can we justā¦ go make fun of bad improv?ā
āI brought the gummy worms,ā he nodded. You leaned slightly against him as you walked down to the outdoor theatre. You were glad to be out for the evening. Glad to be away from Greg and his anger and his hurtful words and the way he treated you. Art was the calm. He was the safety. He didnāt even know it, but he was what kept you going. If you ever got away from Greg, maybe youād tell Art how you felt. As the feelings for Greg dissipated, your feelings for Art resurfaced.Ā
āThe clown bit was actually so good,ā you laughed, walking back up the steps of the campus theatre. āReminded me of what Patrick said the first time we got high.āĀ
His eyes widened and he swallowed the gummy worm he was eating, āMm- I was thinking the same thing. It was him for sure.āĀ
āYou think Iād be a good clown?āĀ
āMmm, no.ā He shook his head. āYour feet arenāt big enough.āĀ
āAnd yours are?āĀ
āOne, who said anything about me being a clown and two, big feet are supposed to mean something, right?āĀ
You laughed, āShut up, so boyish.āĀ
His hand brushed your upper arm, just slightly, and you were all too aware of it. In fact, you were all-too aware of how close you walked to him. It was always an unconscious thing. A forever type thing, always walking close, always leaning against each other in the cafeteria lines, always near each other- never near enough. He then nudged your arm again, this time on purpose, so you opened your hand so that he could dump a few more gummy worms in it and you just smiled. It had never, not once, been more apparent that finding someone to replace your feelings for Art was a mistake. Not when this boy, blonde curls and crooked grin was putting a pile of gummy worms in your hand. Wordlessly. Seamlessly. He just got you and the feeling to kiss him right there, right then was overwhelming. And wrong.Ā
It was wrong. You pressed your lips together for a moment before eating a gummy worm. If your boyfriend was around heād smack them right out of your hand saying you donāt need more sugar. Maybe thatās why he was so bitter, you thought. Lack of sugar. You tried not to think too hard about the urges Art brought with him. He was so lovely, he was such an escape, and he was only your best friend. It was all he could be. You had no idea he was fighting the very same urge, paying extra attention to the fact he didnāt even have to ask you to open your hand, you just knew. But it was wrong. You had a boyfriend.Ā
You said goodbye to Art at the entrance to your building, rather than your dorm. If Greg heard you talking out there, youād be in for something for sure. āThanks for coming out with me tonight-ā you started. āI needed it.āĀ
Artās hands slunk into his pocket and he tilted his head just a little, āYeah, about that. Youāre doing okay?āĀ
āOh, yeah, my mood lately has been down, itās nothing big. Iām just extra appreciative of anything that brings it back up.āĀ
His eyes were understanding and a little apologetic. āIf you want we can do something tomorrow? See a movie or play Scrabble or something stupid. We can get takeout? Takeout and going through Patrickās Facebook and making fun of him.ā
That made you grin. You scrunched your nose just a little, āThat sounds good! Really good. Iāll call you tomorrow and Iāll let you know. I have to check with Greg.ā Of course you did. Greg. Fuck. āBut Iāll call you, I promise.ā
āOkay,ā he nodded. His gaze lingered on your lips. He wished they wouldnāt. He wished his mind wasnāt on who you were going back to after he said goodbye. He walked back to his dorm room in this perpetual state of angst and longing. There was no pain like it. Ever. In any part of his life heād never known a greater emotional turmoil. You werenāt his. And he loved you, he didnāt even like you, he loved you and he knew it and you didnāt and there was nothing he could do.Ā
He went back to his dorm and got into bed in his jeans and his shoes, not bothering to turn the light off, not bothering to pull the covers over himself. He just hugged his pillow and thought about you and it and everything until he fell asleep. You didnāt have that luxury.Ā
āYouāre late,ā Greg said, sitting on your bed. Heād been smoking in your room, you could smell it. Potent and cheap, assaulting your nose. Youād give anything to walk out and not return, but this room was yours. If you left now, heād have you back in your room with some threat or worse. āCare to tell me why?āĀ
āI thought I was home early?ā You set your bag down on the chair. āYou said 11.āĀ
āI said 10:30,ā he replied.Ā
āDid you?āĀ
āDid I stutter?āĀ
āNo. Look, Iām tired, can we just go to bed?āĀ
āOf course we can, doll,ā he smirked a little bit evilly. You sighed, running your hand over the back of your neck. He wanted to fuck you. And you wanted to go to bed. āCome over here.āĀ
āGreg, Iām tired,āĀ
āToo tired?āĀ
āYes. Iām too tired. Iām just going to wash my face and go to bed.āĀ
āFuck you.āĀ
āGreg, thatās uncalled for.ā You said, standing your ground, just a little. āIām just tired.āĀ
He shook his head, āYeah? You go out for hours and come back and donāt even want to fuck. Sounds an awful lot like youāre getting your fill somewhere else. Hm?āĀ
You pressed your hand to your temple, āIt means Iām tired, god, Greg, Iām not cheating.ā And some voice in your head told you that you wished you were. āPlease.ā You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door, just in case. You washed your face and changed into your pajamas before getting in bed next to his heavy scent. As he wrapped an arm around your waist you thought maybe you could tune him out, but his hand slipped over your chest, coming to rest with your breast in his hand. You couldnāt pretend anything. He was himself. Even if you wished it was someone else, it wasnāt.Ā
The next morning, he was gone. Where to? You had no idea. You were just glad. You spent the morning with windows open, cleaning your things, wiping down surfaces and sorting laundry, spraying air freshener. And it dawned on you to call Art. Greg wasnāt around. You hadnāt asked him, but you would make some excuse, maybe.Ā
āHey!ā You greeted him, laying back on your bed, fresh sheets beneath you. āYou still want to get takeout and make fun of Patrickās facebook?āĀ
Art walked to the side of the tennis court, his partner yelling at him to make it quick. He smiled, sitting on the bleachers. āYeah, if youāre up for it. My dorm, around seven? Does that work?ā His smile grew to a grin.Ā
āThat works,ā you replied, smiling too. āWho is yelling at you right now?āĀ
āMy partner for singles today,ā he answered with a chuckle. āHeās telling me to get back on the court.āĀ
āDoesnāt he know youāre super busy making super important plans?āĀ
He looked at his partner, frustrated in waiting on the court. āThatās what Iām saying.ā
āRight?ā You rolled onto your stomach. āIāll let you get back to him, Iāll see you later, Art.āĀ
āSee you later, Y/N,ā he said. You wished he didnāt have to go. You had nothing to do, Greg wasnāt around. Patrick was touring for another week before he came back around here. You decided to go out and meet up with some girlfriends for the afternoon. It was nice to be out and unbothered by having a set time to be home. There was no pressure. Greg didnāt call or text, not once, and it was a strange sort of peace. You talked to your friends about tennis and classes and their current crushes and it was fun and it was good. You retired back to your dorm around six thirty, showered, and did a little makeup. You were just about to leave to meet Art when Greg walked in.
It was like the light was sucked out of the room along with all the air. Or the fresh air. He smelled gross. He tasted worse, kissing you disgustingly. āHey baby, I missed you,ā he slurred. He needed to shave. āWhere you headed?āĀ
āBeaās,ā you replied. āSheās having a movie night.āĀ
āStay,ā he breathed. āMissed you all day. Need to feel you.ā He disgusted you. Hands on your chest with the door not even closed yet from his entry. āCome on, doll. Said no yesterday, canāt say no today.āĀ
āNo.ā
āDonāt give me that attitude, come on. Iām being nice.āĀ
āGreg, I have plans, Iām going to be late,ā you tried to laugh it off nervously, but his hand was around your wrist in seconds. āGreg, please. Come on.āĀ
He narrowed his eyes, āYouāre staying. Bea can fucking wait. Donāt your little friends know that Iām more important than them? Jesus christ, the company you keep.āĀ
You avoided his gaze. His hand slipped down to undo his belt. You debated running. Heād catch you, he was fast. You debated an argument. You didnāt want to fuck him, you didnāt want to have sex with him. He was expecting it more than wanting it. Like all you were was some object, some toy, some possession. His eyes were dark with lust and his words laced with alcohol. You were afraid of him. āGreg, I have to go. Iāll be back around eleven.āĀ
āYouāre not fucking going,ā Greg made it known. Flat out. He shut the door behind him.Ā
āI am. I made the plans, I canāt bail.āĀ
āFor me, yes you fucking can.ā He said, pushing you back onto the bed. āCome on, Y/N. Youāll like it soon enough.āĀ
āNo. Greg. Iām serious. I have to go.āĀ
āYou know better than to talk back to me,ā he warned. As if you were a dog. Or a child. āYou donāt fucking listen? Youāre not going out. Cut the attitude before you regret it.āĀ
āGreg.āĀ
āWhat did I fucking say?ā He yelled, then dropped his voice. It was nasty, his breath, his tone. āIām gonna fuck you and youāre gonna like it.āĀ
āNo-ā his blow came like lightning through your body. A shock. A volt. And then the sting. āGreg, please-ā another. And more. And then he left again. You couldnāt move. You didnāt want to, it hurt. Your ribs ached, your head pulsed. Your lip was bleeding. What could you do but cry and cry and cry? You wanted to call Art, you really did, but you knew if you cried on the phone heād come over here and with Greg on the loose, it wasnāt a good idea. So you curled up into a ball and cried yourself to sleep.Ā
Art sat in his dorm room waiting all night for you. Until about 2 am, when he gave up calling and texting and went to bed. You called him the next morning and he didnāt pick up.Ā
You couldnāt reschedule for any day nearby because of your fat lip and new bruises. Greg came back and apologized like usual, dismissing the purple and blue on your face. His doing. His work. When he was in the bathroom, you called Art again, leaving a quiet voicemail.Ā
āArt, Iām so sorry about my no-show last night. Something came up and I couldnāt make it and Iām so sorry I didnāt call or text. I feel like such an asshole. But next week, for sure. Weāll do whatever you want, my treat. I want to make it up to you, I feel terrible about this. Please call or text me when you get this. Iām sorry.ā
Art gazed over his screen. He wasnāt sure how to feel. Loving you was choking him out and these no-shows and being late and canceling, it was justā¦ too much. You were you and you were everything he could ever want, but you had other priorities, it seemed. He could want you all he wanted, wish for you as often as he could, but you didnāt wish the same. That was all he knew, not knowing the whole truth. Not calling him that night was one of the hardest things to do, but it was for safety.Ā
You couldnāt even see Art if you wanted to for a few days. Not until the bruises faded enough to be covered by clever concealer. You wanted so desperately to go over to his dorm. You wanted to see your friends. Anything to feel better. Anything to get out of this fucking room, but you called in sick to your classes and worked on the material in your room, completely unable to really exist in the outside world. It was just you and Greg in this tiny little room. And he didnāt stop the aggression. You couldnāt escape it.Ā
You called Art again when he left for an hour or two to go to the bar. You had stifled your crying, feeling so completely alone, needing to hear his voice. Maybe heād save you for even a moment. He was the light, he made things better.Ā
He picked up this time. āHey.ā It was singular, a little quiet.Ā
āArt, hi,ā you said. You werenāt sure why you were so overwhelmed with emotion at his simple greeting. āDid you get my messages? I left a voicemail, god, Iām so sorry for the other night.Ā We made plans and I made a commitment but I got tangled up. I wanted to call, Iām so sorry I didnāt.ā You gushed. āI understand if youāre angry. I know I promised you I wouldnāt do what I did, but you have to believe I didnāt mean to. And Iām really sorry.āĀ
He was quiet for a moment. āI know.ā He wasnāt sure what to say. What you did wasnāt okay, but it was you, so heād always forgive. āI get it.ā But he didnāt. āYou have a boyfriend, I canāt expect you to be free all the time. Itās fine.ā But it wasnāt.Ā
āArt, really, I-āĀ
āI forgive you. Just call me next time? Please.ā His words were so easy, it hurt you. āI heard your voicemail, if you still want to make it up to me, Iām free Friday night. Thereās a party, Patrick wants to go. You should come with us.āĀ
You squeezed your eyes shut. A party would be hard to lie about. But it was Art and he was asking and you so desperately wanted to see him that you agreed. You agreed. And the conversation mellowed into something normal. Your usual conversation and banter, slight teases, and warm words. And it felt better. You had plans for Friday and that was that. You wouldnāt let anything or anyone stop you this time.Ā
Getting ready for the party with Greg around sucked. You did your makeup modestly, you couldnāt look too nice or heād stop you from leaving. The concealer didn't quite cover the bruise, but your lip had healed over pretty nicely. The dim lighting would be your friend for sure. You put on a long skirt over a mid-length one. You couldnāt be too careful, he once called a skirt slightly above the knee slutty. And you wore a dollar store t-shirt over your black tank top.Ā
āWhere are you going?ā Greg asked.Ā
āSleepover at Beaās, remember?ā You said. You loved lying to him. It was the best you could get away with. āYou said I could go.āĀ
āYeah. Itās fine. Talk to you later.ā He didnāt make you stay or make you kiss him goodbye, which was a relief. You walked over to Artās dorm with what felt like pep in your step. You didnāt have to be home at any certain time, you were free to roam, to have fun. Greg wouldnāt know. Greg couldnāt know. Patrick let you into Artās room. Heād been debriefed on the stunt you pulled, but he couldnāt hold it against you.Ā
āYou look like youāre going to church,ā he remarked, looking over your outfit.
Ā Art peered over from where he sat, āAmish?āĀ
You chuckled, pulling the shirt off over your head. Both boys were a little taken aback as you tossed the shirt to Artās laundry. āNot quite.ā You undid the button on the side of your skirt and took that off as well, revealing the shorter skirt underneath. You were beautiful, Art thought. He always thought it. But that was because you always were. Wanting you was hard and disruptive and wrong, he reminded himself. But you stood there and everything reminded him of just how fucked he was. Head over heels for a taken girl. Both of them were too distracted to pay attention to the covered-up bruise on your outer thighs. They didnāt pay close enough attention to the multitude of bracelets that covered the bruised fingerprints on your wrist. Your face was another story. Another lie.Ā
Artās mouth was just a little open, watching you shed the outer layer of clothes. Patrick tossed you a shooter. āSo whatās with the coverup?āĀ
You thought he meant your makeup over the bruise on your face and you held your breath for a half-second. He meant the clothes. āOh, Greg wouldnāt like me out in a skirt and tank top.ā You tried not to cringe at the words. Were they telling?
āWhy does Greg have a say in that?ā Patrick replied, leaning forward in his chair just a little. Art looked away, he had to. His face would say something he didnāt want you to know. Patrick was overstepping, he couldnāt bear that either.Ā
You unscrewed the cap of the shooter, āHeās notā¦ I donāt know. But I donāt give a fuck, Iām going out anyway,ā you said, trying to ignore that line of questioning. āIām in the skirt and the shirt. Thoughts?ā You did a little spin. Art couldnāt take his eyes off of you. You were so perfect it hurt. It hurt.Ā
āHot.ā Patrick nodded. He unscrewed his own shooter, standing and grabbing one to pass to Art. Art pushed past his thoughts and the three of you did a little ācheersā, downing the small bottles. You would take hot. Hot was good. Hot was the opposite of how you were feeling. Greg made you feel so gross, it was hard to be anything else. And with staying cooped up in your room, bruised and marinating in the feeling of being ugly- so hot was good. He said what Art was thinking. It was a little less than he thought, but it was a good summary.Ā
The three of you headed out soon after, drinking on the way. You were leaning on Art as you walked, the three of you laughing at some inside joke. Your laugh was beautiful and rang out in the street. With the soft buzz of alcohol in his head, on his skin, you were an angel. You were always an angel, bathed in streetlight. And your hand was around his bare forearm and boundaries with you were always blurry but this felt odd. He was enjoying it, it was wrong, but he was letting it pass with the excuse of the alcohol. Your hand was so soft on his skin, the perfect temperature, perfect everything. When were you not perfect?Ā
āOkay so Patrick is set on bringing a girl back- but bringing a girl back where?ā You laughed, turning onto one of the little pathways between the rented residencies.Ā
āI donāt think heās thought that far ahead,ā Art chuckled, nudging Patrick just a little. Patrick raised his hands in surrender, both hands filled with shooters. His pockets were also full. āYou were going to say my dorm room, werenāt you?ā
āNasty,ā you teased. āPoor Art. He sleeps in that bed, you know.āĀ
āUh-huh. Youāre one to talk, youāve always got some form of hickey on your neck, you donāt even try to hide it. Me, nasty? You.ā Your hand immediately flew to the side of your neck. āSit with that one.āĀ
Artās heart always fell at the mention of it. Every time, without fail. You moved away from him just slightly at the mention. You would usually have a retort to something like that. But you didnāt. Your hand just stayed on the side of your neck, covering the fingerprint bruises you didnāt know were visible. You pulled your hair over it. āPass me another shooter, please.āĀ
Art, sweet, feeling pretty shitty over the way he was viewing you, stayed quiet. Mostly. Until you were just outside the party. Patrick pat him on the shoulder, heading in right away. Art, sweet, stopped you with the extension of his arm. āYouāre quiet.ā He said.Ā
āSo were you,ā you replied.Ā
āJust wondering if youāre okay?ā He said. Posing it as a question. āYouāve seemed upset since we were at mine, I just wanted to know before we go in there and itās too loud and I get too drunk to ask.āĀ
āYouāve never been too drunk you ask,ā you smiled. You were standing a little bit close to him, your toes inches from touching. āYou got soooo drunk at the Millerās party last year and you still asked me if I was having fun. I wasnāt and we left and you threw up, remember?āĀ
āI donāt,ā he chuckled, eyes soft. But he nodded, āYouāre okay?āĀ
āYeah, Iām okay. I need more to drink and I want to find Bea and dance. My plans. Your plans?āĀ
āDrink and save women from Patrick,ā he nodded, his grin coming back.Ā
You, just a little clouded from alcohol, pressed your palm to the side of his face just for a second. āYouāre a saint, Art Donaldson.ā He felt his skin flush. Your hand slipped away and went down his forearm once again, pulling him into the party. It was natural you let go of him, Art made a beeline for Patrick who was already talking to some girl. She was weird, flirted with Art too once he showed up.Ā
You needed to lie to Greg more often, you thought, taking a shot from some girl you shared a 3pm class with. Beaās hands on your hips, dancing together, hands raised over your heads. This was living, this was uncontrolled, unbridled by any abuse, any threat. You could have fun and not feel guilty about it after. Greg had too much trust in a girl he hit. You felt- though you werenāt- free. Just a little bit.Ā
Art watched you with Bea, watched the way you moved. He was out of it. Just a little. Not too drunk at all. But enough. Numb, watching you. Hard, watching you. He hid a little behind Patrick to hide it, watching your hips sway, watching how close you and your best friend were. He couldnāt have cared less about Bea. Just you.Ā
He should have told you he liked you in high school. Not saying anything had to be one of the biggest regrets of his entire life. You were perfect for him in every way and you were warm and inviting and you were witty and fun and you knew each other like the backs of your hands and it would have been worth it to tell you. He knew that, looking at you, that it would have been easiest to tell you when he still could. He was bitter about it. A missed chance. Patrick told him heād regret it and watching you under purple lights, he knew Patrick had been right. It was all bullshit.Ā
Patrick suddenly grabbed Artās arm pretty hard, yanking him closer, āThat guy over there. Thatās Greg, right?ā He said, voice low even in the loudness of the party. He gestured over to the guy in the weird sweater and jeans, leaned up against the wall, arm hanging above a short hardly-dressed girl. Faces close. So close. Noses touching kind of close.Ā
āOh, fuck,ā Art breathed, eyes locked on them, watching Gregās hand touch just under this girlās chin. You didnāt know Greg was there, that was apparent. But of course, the dirtbag was. Artās heart pounded hard in his chest. He looked back at Patrick, whose expression was filled with hatred. As it should be because what the fuck? Regardless of how much he was rooting for Art, always rooting for Art, Greg was still the guy you were with. Your boyfriend. And he was with someone else.Ā
āI need a reason not to fuck him up right now,ā Patrick said. āWhat the fuck do we do?āĀ
āI donāt know.ā Art answered truthfully. āShe doesnāt know heās here, he doesnāt know sheās here.āĀ
Patrick shook his head, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, visibly pissed off. At least Patrick could be pissed off, Artās stomach was just in knots. It was almost nonsensical. No way he would cheat on you. You? You were everything, you were gorgeous in all ways and you had a personality. How could he cheat? He looked back over at Greg in a liplock with this other girl and the anger did rise, but his eyes fell back on you and it eased. This was fucked all around. Every bit of this was fucked up. āWe have to tell her, we canāt keep it to ourselves.āĀ
āI agree but how are we going to say it? Weāre in a crowd of people, itās not exactly fun news.āĀ
āFucking asshole. Iām pissed. Heās slobbering all over that girl like a fucking dog. You know, I shouldā¦ā
Art couldnāt keep listening to Patrickās rant. He didnāt even want to look back at Greg. But Greg was very obviously invested in his cheating schemes. Art wondered how long heād been doing it to you. How long had this guy been cheating? Did you not satisfy him? How could you not satisfy him, you sported hickeys so often and you were late to meet up and it was all sickening, but it didnāt add up. This guy was the world's most unsatisfied, apparently. It, he, was disgusting. Art felt his face crinkle up just thinking about it, but he had to now. Your feelings were in the balance here.Ā
ā- in the face. Knock his goatee right off. Art. Art, Iām telling her.āĀ
āPatrick, give me a fucking second,ā Art said, holding a hand up. He looked back at you, Bea pouring a shot in your mouth. You were smiling. Grinning. And you were beautiful and he hated the idea that youād stop soon. Fuck. Neither of you deserved this. Not you, not Art. āWeāll tell her itās time to go and then weāll tell her outside, no bullshit.āĀ
Patrick nodded, āThis is bad.āĀ
āYeah.āĀ
āIām so fucking angry.āĀ
āI know.ā Artās heart was leaping out of his chest. He held his hand out and Patrick dug in his pocket for a stronger shooter. Art drank it all quickly, letting it burn his throat. His heart didnāt slow even a bit. āFuck.āĀ
Patrick leaned over to the girl who heād just been talking to, saying something about having to leave. Art watched her roll her eyes and walk away. It was fair, sheād been standing there for a bit listening to him trash talk your boyfriend. Art rubbed his eyes, trying to sober up just a little, but after that shooter, it was a little bit pointless. Regret seemed to be a theme around here. āHeās gone.ā Patrick said. Art let the fuzz from rubbing his eyes melt and sure enough, Greg wasnāt where he was before. Just a little panicked, he set his eyes on you. There he was, towering over you, rage in his eyes. It was clear to Art what was going through your head, he knew you too well, you were cowering. Patrick was still scanning the crowd for Greg, but Art watched as Gregās fingers locked onto your upper arm and he yanked you so hard that your shoulder went funny for a second.Ā
Art, a little shocked, watching him drag you out of sight. And he launched into action. He started into the sea of people dancing, drinking, leaving Patrick behind. Patrick was faced the other way, by the time Art was absorbed into the crowd, it was a little late to find even him. Art pushed through people, trying to keep his sight on you, but he lost you in it. āFuck, fuck, fuck,ā he mumbled. Heād never seen anyone grab anyone the way Greg just grabbed you. It was violent and harsh and the way it happened, it couldnāt have been good in any way. He pushed through people, accidentally pushing a guy as he passed him, the guy went to push back but Art just darted out of the way. He made his way to the door, you werenāt around it, so you had to have left.Ā
āArt Donaldson, my man,ā one of his tennis buddies greeted him, stepped in front of him and Art just stepped around him, trying to find you. You, where were you? His heart rate was raised higher than heād ever felt it. Rapid, as if heād run a mile. He ran out onto the street, looking around, but there wasnāt any sight of you. What he would do when he found you, he had no idea, he just knew he needed to find you. Nobody just grabbed someone like that with good intentions.Ā
Greg wasnāt a good guy and he knew that, he just thought it was his bias. That maybe he was overreacting, but it didnāt look so much that way now. āGreg, please!ā You yelled from his left. Art turned his head to see two figures head into one of the thin alleyways between buildings. He could hear a man speaking back to you, Greg, obviously, but his voice was too much of a growl to understand. Art started jogging toward the sound, cautiously. āIām sorry, Iām sorry, okay, Iām sorry I lied,ā you cried out.Ā
āLittle fucking whore. Lie to me to go party with your friends? Dance on some fucking guy, cheat one me? Thatās what you wanted?ā Artās heart was about to break his ribs. He ran just a little faster.
āNo, fuck, Greg, stop! I was with Bea, I was with Bea!āĀ
āAt a fucking party. If you wanted to be a slut you could have said so. Fucking lying to me, youāre disgusting. Fucking bitch.āĀ
āGreg!āĀ
āDonāt even start talking back to me now! Youāre a lying, cheating whore who deserves to be treated like one!āĀ
Art was almost there, he wasnāt sure what heād do. āGreg, donāt fucking touch me. Iām dead serious, Iāll scream. Get off me, get off me you asshole!āĀ
The sound of the blow made Artās entire body go cold. He felt himself drain of colour, he felt his heart stop for just a second. It was a sickening noise. The entirety of him tensed up to a point he felt like a coiled spring, his chest tight, ribs pressing in. He hit you, that was the sound of him hitting you, he hit you. Art made it over and came at Greg with a surprising force, shoving him off of you and onto the ground. He was drunk, it was easy to do. Your hand grabbed Artās upper arm, but missed as Artās body followed through with the movement.Ā
āWhat the fuck?!ā Greg exclaimed. You moved behind Art, backward, away. Tears streamed down your face, you were choking on sobs, cradling the side of your face with one hand and your upper arm with the other. Art stepped back with you. He was so angry he himself couldnāt breathe. He couldnāt look at you, he kept his eyes on Greg, breathing hard. Shoving was tame, shoving him off of you was going to have to be enough, Art wasnāt violent. The shock of all this hadnāt settled, it wouldnāt settle. āWho the fuck are you, tough guy?ā Greg advanced on Art who was nimble, but between anti-car poles, stuck. Shoved against the wall, he just avoided having his head hit the wall by putting his hand up.Ā
āArt!ā You yelled. āGreg, stop! GREG!ā You screamed, you hoped someone would come. You hoped someone would call the cops.Ā
āArt fucking Donaldson, huh?ā Greg smirked, face close to Artās. āYou been fucking my girlfriend? Hm? This the one, Y/N, really? Just friends my ass, you probably came here with him.āĀ
āFuck you,ā Art seethed. Greg was bigger than him.Ā
āGet off of him, Greg, Iām begging you, donāt hurt him!āĀ
Greg fumed, āUsed me to get over him, huh? Big-eared, fuckass, twinkie little pretty boy, here?āĀ
āShut up!ā You yelled. Your head pounded, your skin stung. āStop. Now. Iāll call the police, Iāll get someone to call the police, Greg, get off of him!āĀ
Art shoved Greg backward again, but he just walked right back. āI donāt want to fight you.ā Art said, his eyes dark. āFuck off. Leave her alone, fuck off.āĀ
āHeās playing prince charming, Y/N. Youāve been fucking him on the side. Yeah, thatās why you never put out, you slut. Getting his pathetic skinny boy dick on the side.ā Art kneed Greg in the groin, pushing him off again and stepping over to you. āOh, youāre fucking dead.ā His eyes burned with rage and he came at Art with a pouncing force, grabbing him and bringing him down to the ground. You screamed, watching Greg tackle Art to the pavement. The brawl began, Greg holding Art down, trying to punch him but being blocked. Art wasnāt violent, he was avoiding hurting Greg. For you. For your sake. You had no choice, you had to intervene. What was a few more bruises? You tried to push Greg off, but he kept at it, trying to hurt Art.Ā
āHey! Hey, what the fuck!ā It was Patrick and he dragged you out of this with too much ease, putting you to the side and going right back to push Greg off of Art and onto his back. A bystander behind Patrick had their phone out, calling 911, thank god. You watched in pure shock, Art get punched in the shoulder rather than the head and in a swift blow, Patrick punched Greg in the jaw. And he went limp. You grabbed Art, you grabbed whatever you could on him, his shirt, his opposite shoulder, on your knees. He looked at you with eyes sadder than youād ever seen them. You moved closer.Ā
His hand reached up to your face desperately but also gently, despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins. āYouāre okay? Youāre okay.āĀ
āIām okay,ā you nodded a little too much, looking him over just as he looked you over, noting the way your cheekbone was bleeding. He really hit you. āGod, are you okay? Iām so sorry, Art, Iām so sorry.ā You were crying a steady stream of tears, lip trembling, and you were still so beautiful.Ā
āDonāt be sorry, donāt be sorry,ā he said, trying to wipe your tears a little more desperately than he had just done. āHe hit you, he hurt you, how-āĀ
āI wanted to tell you. I was scared. I was so scared heād do something awful. I donāt love him, I donāt want him, I want you. I want you, Iāve wanted you.ā You blurted, sobbing just a little more. Art messily moved your hair out of your face. āArt, I-āĀ You were crying so hard, it was hard to breathe. āI couldnāt leave him.ā You looked over at Patrick shaking his hand out, at Gregās unconscious self. Hands gentle, he turned your head away from it.Ā
Artās lips were just a little parted, eyes looking over the damage to your face. āHow long has he been?āĀ
āA long time,ā you swallowed hard. āThree months in, maybe two- two and a half.ā You said, biting your lip trying to stop crying. āI wanted to leave him. I wanted to so badly, but I couldnāt. Heās- heās why I didnāt show up those times, I wanted to be there, but heādā¦ he wasā¦ Iām sorry.āĀ
āWhy are you sorry, you have nothing to be sorry for, this isnāt your fault,ā he said, bracing you with soft hands. āItās okay. Heās not getting close to you ever again, Patrick is making sure of that.āĀ
āHe was right about the using him part, I was using him to get over you and it was- wrong. It was wrong and he started hurting me and then it was too late to get out.ā
In the heat of the moment, your āI want youās had slipped past him. He wanted to make sure you were okay, he wasnāt focused on that. You were blurting things out, heād missed it. His eyebrows furrowed, he lowered his head just a bit, āOver me? What do you mean?ā His judgment also wasnāt the best. But it didnāt matter. You sat up just a little, still clinging onto his clothes, hands shaking. With Greg out, going to be out of the picture the words just spilled from your mouth. Rolling off your tongue in light of what was soon to be true freedom.Ā
āIāve wanted you forever, god, it kills me that I never said anything. Itās you, itās been you, I donāt know why I thought I could ever try and be with anyone to forget that. Itās just, youāve neverā¦āĀ
āWhat? No, no. Iāve liked you since I met you, we were twelve, it was bad and itās been you. You never said anything either-ā the sound of a cop car approaching interrupted. āYou liked me?āĀ
āYes! So much. Too much, sometimes. God, Iām so stupid.ā You were crying still, even more now. āYou justā¦ you never said anything, so I never said anything and then I got stuck, but it never stopped. Itās bad, itās so bad, I probably love you, itās awful.ā The alcohol was still running the conversation.Ā
āThat is awful,ā Art chuckled just a little bit. On the pavement with you, cop car approaching, lights flashing. This conversation would be over in a minute. Your eyes met his, sad, angry, mutual thoughts and mutual expressions.Ā
āItās bad?ā You smiled just a little through your tears.Ā
He grinned just a little, āI've been in love with you for as long as I've known what being in love feels likeā
Artās thumb wiped your tears with a little less desperation now. His heart and yours were still beating hard. āThatās so bad, thatās six years,āĀ
āI know.ā He said, grinning his wide crooked grin. The conversation had strayed from the real problem, but it was a good distraction. A welcomed one, in fact. Proof that things could and would be better. āItās okay. Are you going to be okay?āĀ
āIām going to be okay,ā you nodded. The policemen, two of them walked over and began their spiel, asking about what happened and Art helped you to your feet. The night was still young, the persecution was easy to figure and a diary you kept detailing his abuse was a great help to the case. You, Patrick, and Art all spent the night at the police station with forms and questions and people trying to get a grasp on the situation. A blurry security camera was also a great amount of help. Greg was charged properly, put away. It was easy to see who was the real problem. You sat with ice to your face in one of the police chairs, being offered therapy and counseling and numbers to call for trauma and crisis. Everyone was so sweet, one of the policewomen held your hand for a good while until it stopped shaking.Ā
You still cried a lot. Sorry that everyone had to go through this just because you couldnāt leave a guy. Just because you had tried to forget your feelings for Art in someone else. But the words, āitās not your faultā were thrown around a lot. And that youād be safe. And it felt good to know. Youād sobered back up, obviously. So did the boys. You had the most extensive questioning, the boys waited in the main room.Ā
āAll the excuses, the ball to the face, the stairsā¦ā Patrick sighed heavily, staring forward into a void.Ā
āIt was him.ā Art nodded. āI feel like such an idiot, how the fuck did I not know? I know her better than myself, she hid it and I didnāt want to think about her and Greg. It wasā¦ it hurt.ā He admit. Patrick looked over at Art.Ā
āHeās gone. He wonāt hurt her again. If he tries, best believe Iām doing more than knocking his ass out. I canāt fucking believe this shit. Iām glad I got off, but jesus fucking christ, I wish Iād done enough to be behind those bars.āĀ
āNo you donāt,ā Art sighed, leaning forward into his hands. āFuck. I didnāt even fight back.āĀ
āYouāre not that kind of guy,ā Patrick reasoned. āWhich is fine. You got him off her, that was all you needed to do.āĀ
āI guess, butā¦ fuck.āĀ
āShe told you she wanted you,ā He reminded Art with a slight sly smile on his lips. He gave Art a gentle little push off the shoulder. As if Art had been able to stop thinking about it. Heād sobered up just the same and the confession might have been badly timed, but at least it happened. He meant it, he hoped you did too. He was trying not to let it eat him alive alongside the fact your now-ex hit you and he hadnāt known. Maybe he missed the other clues? How did he not know? āShe likes you too. Itās all youāve wanted.āĀ
āI know,ā Art sighed. āAfter that, though?āĀ
āMeans sheās yours.āĀ
Art looked up and met Patrickās eyes, trying to verify if he meant it. As if Patrick was the dictator. But Patrick was only the reality. The gravity of the situation hung above him, but you were in front of him, free from the questioning. Your cheeks were pink and tear-stained still and your eyelashes were still wet. Patrick tipped his head toward you to gesture to Art and the second Art saw you, he was on his feet. His eyes were wide like a doeās, hands in his pockets.Ā
He met you halfway down the blue-painted precinct hallways. Your eyes said more than words did as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He pulled you in the rest of the way into a hug that had more sincerity and life than the walls had ever seen. His arms wrapped around your waist, grabbing onto the fabric of your shirt on your sides, holding you tight and close. He kissed your shoulder, his chin resting in your hair. āIām glad youāre okay.ā He mumbled. You shut your eyes for a moment, allowing him to envelop you in his arms. He held you so tight, it felt like he was keeping you from falling to pieces. It would take you a while to get over all of this, but right now, it felt like youād be okay.Ā
He was refreshingly cold, the precinct was warm and youād been upset, so of course you were warm. He held you for a minute or maybe five. Nobody had to use the hallway and anyone who did just went back around. Patrick didnāt watch, instead, he went to the counter to ask about getting a ride back to campus.Ā
Eventually, you pulled away from the hug. Not entirely, just almost. His arms slid over your back, his grip just loosening, not leaving. In fact you didnāt get very far in pulling away. Your heart beat fast in your chest. Even in the upset, even after the fact, Art was still your peace. He was quiet and he held you as long as you needed him to. He was always there and you knew he would be. With everything that happened just then, with that confessionā¦ Your forehead pressed against his. Gentle. Safe. You were safe. You felt safer here, like this, than you did in that room with the officers who asked you so many things.Ā
You looked at him through your eyelashes. He must have read your mind, he must have known you too well. With a tilt of your heads, your lips met. There was the slightest, softest bit of hesitation, but it was soothed over in seconds, your hand sliding to cup Artās cheek. He pulled you back in with slow, easy hands that didnāt grab too hard. The kiss was patient, calculated, and warm. It sent what felt like tiny sparks through all of your veins leaving goosebumps in their wake. It felt like completion, like a satisfying end to a movie, like putting a book back on the shelf after reading it. It was easy to kiss him, your heart slowed for the first time as his pace matched yours. However, out of understanding, the kiss wasnāt too long. Maybe a minute, nothing more.Ā
Youād been through something. He couldnāt be the one to fix all of that, but heād be there for you until it felt better. Stepping in now felt wrong, felt like it was one thing to another. You needed the time to yourself. Art didnāt kiss you again for another five months. All of which were spent the way they usually were, aside from being a little closer than usual and hanging out so much more. You were free to do as you pleased. Free to see him. Free to stay home- and you spent a good amount of your time alone healing. Physically and mentally.Ā
Patrick was often around to help you laugh it off, but when you needed to cry, Art was always right there. After some time, you were feeling like yourself again. And you were laughing too much, smiling all the time again, spinning in a new skirt and crashing into Art. Who you then kissed, after so much time thinking about it, replaying it, wanting it again. It was finally okay to do so. After seven years, it was only fitting that he welcomed it, fully, and entirely. You were giggling, your lips pressed to his, and he knew it was okay. There was no bruise on your cheekbone to be cautious of, both of his hands held your face, your head tilted back just a little as he kissed you the way you were meant to be kissed. The way Greg couldnāt. It would never mean so much.Ā
Greg was in your past, but Art was your past. And your future, now. Because now that you had each other, neither of you was going to let go. He promised you that between kisses. You promised it back.Ā
cannot believe i forgot about it and i keep re-reading like i didnāt write it bro HIM NOT FIGHTING THE ABUSIVE EX IS SO CRAZY TO ME LIKE JUST SHOWS THE CONTRAST AND WHO SHE NEEDS. HE TAKES PUNCHES AND SHOVES FOR HER. AND THEN THEY KISS ONCE but then DONT KISS FOR MONTHS WHILE SHE HEALS FROM HER RELATIONSHIP
get out. iām not even trying to hype myself up at all like i know it seems that way but iām just so stunned by this piece of mine i forgot about. my heart doesnāt understand i wrote this.
Summary: based on a dialogue request- Art has been in love with you since he met you at twelve. He's been pining for six years, so it kills him when you get a boyfriend over the summer. He's your friend, he's supposed to be happy for you. Instead, he's just hurt. And jealous. Too blinded by it to see the way your boyfriend is really treating you. After a climactic event outside of a party, you're freed from it all. And Art is right there, waiting, the way he's always been.
MAJOR WARNINGS: violence, abusive relationships, mentions of unwanted sex/attempts at unwanted sex. a fight. mentions of injuries, nothing too graphic, just bruises.
Warnings: pining, yearning, angst, jealousy, mentions of drinking, a kiss. badly edited.
Kat Zimmerman had nothing on you, that was for sure. Only a few nights after his little learning experience with Patrick, you came into the boyās lives and their worlds were forever changed. Artās more so. It was that one fateful day when you were picking out a tennis racket, the new girl at MRTA, and those two little boys knew they had to befriend you before Jake Dalton did. Both little boys, stumbling over each other, made their way over to the rackets and said hi, overlapping pre-pubescent voices telling you their names. And you smiled, hair braided, cheeks pink and rosy, exchanging their names for yours.Ā
And you were friends. Thatās how it was. You were friends. You, Patrick, and Art. But more so you and Art because Patrick didnāt know how he felt about being friends with girls. Especially when you were such a girl. Patrick didnāt have a painful little boy crush on you the way Art did. You told Art his hair would be perfect for pigtails and heād let you do what you wanted, clips and bows and all, just so youād touch him. He bragged to Patrick later that night. Patrick just laughed at him. āShe put bows in your hair, dude. That doesnāt count as touching.ā He was humbled.Ā
Patrick did feel a little different when fourteen rolled around and you had boobs, but Art was the same, if not deeper in it for you. You remained their friend. You were always around, playing with Artās hair on the bleachers or studying with them, making sure they actually paid attention. You went to all of Artās games and maybe, for a few split seconds, he thought maybe you liked him back. But itās a tale as old as time. He couldnāt ever be sure, so why would he tell you and potentially ruin everything? If he told you and it wasnāt reciprocated, he could say goodbye to all the casual touching and the things you granted him somewhat platonically.Ā
Patrick was one of the only people who knew how bad Art had it because even after their first little incident, Patrick had once or twice heard or walked in on Art masturbating and it was a little obvious who he was thinking about. It was fine, it was nothing new.Ā
One thing was so very clear and that this was all just pining. Pining after you, pulling strings to be closer to you, to hang out with you. Cancelling plans, switching partners, everything. Heād go insane when your hand brushed his, he was there for you every time you needed him. And by twelfth grade, he could say he loved you. Itād been six years of pining, he knew it to be true. So when you called him over the summer to say you had a boyfriend, it just about killed him.Ā
āHeās really nice and heās a tennis enjoyer, but not a player. Itās refreshing to find someone who doesnāt know every single term and I get to be the smart one for once,ā you gushed to him. He was your best friend after all. Youād been friends, best friends, for six years. Art was glad you managed six years without any real crushes for more than a day and he could handle those because they werenāt real, but this was very real. Or you said so. āGod, I canāt believe it, he just asked for my number two weeks ago and now weāve been together a week. Itās so surreal.āĀ
āThatās great, Iām happy for you,ā Art said through clenched teeth. Six years of wanting you and this guy asked for your number and had you as his girlfriend in under a week. He wondered if youād kissed him. He remembered when you had your first kiss just after his. Just about killed him though heād just kissed Amy White two days before and bragged about it. He hoped it would make you jealous, but you had your own beau. This was worse than that. You were going to Stanford with him in a month or two, he thought if there was any time to make that change and tell you, it would be when he saw you next. And there wouldnāt be any college dating scandals and maybe he could live happily and find some girl to forget you with, though he knew he couldnāt.
āSo itās serious?āĀ
āVery. Iām excited.ā Just about took him out.Ā
He didnāt eat for maybe two days. Would have been longer if Patrick didnāt come over and force-feed him nachos. Art told him the whole situation and Patrick, who had, of course, been rooting for you and Art since finding out Art liked you, was pretty pissed off about it. The two went back and forth just emphasizing āsix yearsā. Six years of what? Six years of you hugging him and playing with his hair, going to movies with him, helping him study, spending time with him alone for you to just go and find some guy on a whim? And start dating him? You were all Art had wanted and it was then that he confessed that he was probably in love with you to Patrick. Patrick wasnāt surprised, then went and stole some beers from a friend, saying they needed to drink about it.Ā
You still called as you usually did and Art never got to really feel himself heal when every phone call was an update and a fresh wound. The poor boy was yours and you werenāt his. There was nothing he could say to change that, he was a good friend. And he wanted you to be happy, so he kept his mouth shut. You talked about dates and how good of a kisser he was though you wished he used less tongue sometimes and every word was a papercut that added up to a bigger hurt. He had never wanted anyone the same way he wanted you and he was so sure he couldnāt. He buried his face in his pillow and got so frustrated it drove him to tears. His stomach hurt constantly and he felt like his heart was being pulled down to his stomach.Ā
He was a little scared of how heād act when you talked to him in person. He just finished settling into campus, his dorm room. Youād done the same with the agreement to meet him for coffee at the campus diner. You were still you, he noted, still painfully beautiful. And you were two months into dating this guy Greg. He sounded like a dick. You said he liked country music and he wasnāt going to post-secondary, he was older and going to a trade school. An asshole. Art did his best to change the topic.Ā
āMmm, so they have campus events all the time, theyāre showing E.T. this Friday if you want to go.ā You said. āWe should.āĀ
āWe should talk them into playing Mac and Me after. A real movie.āĀ
āShut up, oh my god.ā You laughed. Your laugh was one of his favourite things. He found it just a little painful to be here with you, knowing you couldnāt be the way you used to be now that you had a boyfriend. āDo you want to come with me to E.T. or not though, Iām terrified of new people.āĀ
āNo, yeah, Iāll go,ā he nodded.Ā
Your boyfriend visited on Thursday, so he didnāt see you then. Usually, you called him regardless of being on the same campus, but you didnāt. And then when you said youād meet Art on Friday, you didnāt show up until the movie was half over. Art sat there, watching the movie on a stupid lawn chair with stupid Reece's Pieces and you came and joined him, apologetic. Said you were with Greg and Art could only imagine what that meant. It was too dark for him to notice how red your wrist was.Ā
It was Artās first step to breaking. The movie finished and he walked you back to your dorm. āJust saying, if you have plans with your boyfriend, donāt make plans with me. Iām not that kind of guy,ā he reasoned, heading up the stairs with you. He tried not to sound bitter. He was only half-bitter anyway, he was mostly genuine.Ā
You sighed, rubbing your left eye just a little. āI know, Iām sorry.āĀ
āDoes he know about me?ā You were quiet. Too quiet. āY/N?āĀ
You bite your lip, āHe knows weāre friends. He doesnāt know the full extent and he doesnāt need to! Thereās nothing to worry about, but I just donāt want to worry him. He knows youāre my friend, he doesnāt knowā¦ everything.āĀ
Art pressed his hand to his forehead, āIām a secret, thatās crazy, thatāsā¦ fine, I guess. I donāt want to ruin anything for you.āĀ
āYou couldnāt.ā You told him. āHeās secure. Heās good. And Iām sorry again for being late, Iāll make it up to you with coffee tomorrow if youāll let me.āĀ
Art nodded in response. How could he not forgive you? How could you stand here and be so beautiful and so apologetic and have him not forgive you? So he swallowed all his words for the thousandth time. āCoffee sounds good. Bring doughnuts. Campus library?āĀ
āCampus libraryā¦ā
ā3 pm?āĀ
āPerfect. See you then.ā You kept your sleeve over your wrist which was still pinkened. āI really am sorry, Art.ā
He smiled just a little, forced, āItās okay. I promise. But Iāll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Y/N.āĀ
You said goodnight back and slipped into your dorm room again. Greg had gone out to the local bar, he didnāt come back until 2am when he said heād be back at 12. Came back drunk and wanting to kiss you quite badly, smelling awfully of whiskey and weed.Ā
Art wanted to forgive you for it all, but he felt like he couldnāt. Maybe he was bitter. He was bitter that you found someone and he didnāt, he was bitter that you had someone who wasnāt him. Heād yet to meet Greg, but he wondered if you smiled at him with your eyes... or when something funny was said if you'd lean into his shoulder while laughing. He wondered if you were the same, or if it felt the same when you were alone with him- like you could say anything and be unjudged. And that any darkness could be made a joke and made better just by talking for hours. He wondered if Greg had any of that the way he had. But Greg probably had that and more and Art would have to deal with that. He felt his heart physically slow its beating as it slowly, but surely, was beginning to crack.Ā
You met Art the next day and of course, he noticed the hickey on your neck. It made his stomach do flips and tie itself in knots and he wanted to get up and leave, but you had the doughnuts and coffee. And he was supposed to be happy for you. He had to remind himself of that. He looked at you, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear and laughed and engaged with what he had said and you were still the most gorgeous girl on the planet. Nothing could or ever would change that. He was still head over heels and he couldnāt help it. He would call himself pathetic, he would degrade himself for still wanting you, but after six years, he couldnāt get away from it.Ā
Greg was over quite a bit. You never called when he was around. You said youād come hang out when Patrick was in town but you were late again, said you tripped down the stairs and the boys thought it was some excuse for sex with Greg, but you had the injuries to prove it, so neither of them could really be mad. āIt hurts like a bitch,ā you huffed, sitting down with them. āBut itās fine. We should drink tonight.āĀ
āYour dorm room or mine?ā Art replied, a smile on his face. He was happy about an excuse to drink, he was happy you werenāt late because of Greg, and he was happy you were here.Ā
Your eyes widened and you answered much too quickly. āYours.āĀ
The three of you headed back to Artās dorm. You lay on his bed, checking your phone every minute or so. It looked like you were getting an abundance of messages, but you were never texting back. Your phone rang twice before you silenced it. The boys chalked it up to Greg and the obsessions of an early relationship, but it wasnāt that early. At one point you tossed your phone off the end of his bed and on top of Artās laundry. āPlease, please, please, pass the vodka,ā you enthused. Art and Patrick chuckled, watching you take a pretty large swig.Ā
āMight want to slow down,ā Patrick said, looking at Art, then back at you. You were out of the three of you, the person who hardly ever drank. And here you were chugging it like water. āDonāt want to return you to your boyfriend off your ass.āĀ
āItās fine,ā you replied. āHeās fine, itās all fine.āĀ
āYeah, I see that,ā Patrick replied, taking the vodka back from you. Art grabbed it out of his hand and took a swig equal to yours, trying to drown out the way he was feeling. You were in his bed, talking about your boyfriend. It was fucked. And it felt awful. He looked at you, clouded by alcohol and god, he wished he kissed you in high school. He wished he told you how he felt. If he had, maybe you wouldnāt be so far out of reach. It took him all his strength not to tell you that while drunk. Instead he just laid on the bed next to you, laughing with you about some stupid shit Patrick said.Ā
āThis is why youāre not in college, Pat,ā you laughed, out of breath. You had turned on your side, your hand was resting on Artās upper arm. Patrick just groaned, laughing as he turned his head down to the floor. Art was too aware of your hand on his arm. The way it moved up and down almost the way a person would soothe another, but it was you. And this never meant anything, so why should Art let himself believe it did now?Ā
āYouāre so smart, tell us how good you are with context clues, go-ā Patrick teased. But your eyes met the clock on Artās desk. Your eyes widened a little. Youād lost track of time.Ā
āOh my god,ā you said, a little bit of panic in your voice. āItās almost midnight, fuck, I have to go.ā You jolted upright and literally climbed over Art to get off his bed. āIām so sorry, guys, Iāll see you tomorrow, please text me.ā You grabbed your phone and your bag and in seconds you were gone.Ā
Art just shut his eyes and sighed. āI feel that,ā Patrick nodded. āWhat the fuck was that?āĀ
āGreg beckons,ā Art replied bitingly. āCanāt be late to see Greg!āĀ
āFucking Greg,ā Patrick grunted. āYou want the vodka back?āĀ
āYes please,ā Art groaned, covering his face with his pillow.Ā
You returned a little tipsy to Greg, who was tipsier. You used to think he was really great. He was funny and nice and he helped you drown out your feelings for Art. It felt like a step forward, progressive, real. Like a real relationship. One you knew you needed so maybe liking Art with no proof he liked you back would be easier. It was for a moment, but bliss is temporary.Ā
āYouāre back, doll,ā Greg said, greeting you on messed up bedsheets, not even bothering to meet you halfway. āIāve had a night. Cāmere, I missed you.ā Youāre afraid to say youāre tired and you just want to sleep. You slink into bed with him. He smells like whiskey again. Itās stronger, more potent, and he needs a shower. The second youāre in bed with him, heās on top of you. āSo why donāt you tell me why you didnāt answer my fucking texts, huh? Or when I called you four fucking times. You know how embarrassing to call your girl and she doesnāt pick up, huh? Had to do that four fucking times in front of my friends, were you trying to embarrass me?ā His hand is tight on your arm, leaving bruises, the other hand is on your hair as he keeps himself propped up. Itās pulling and you feel the headache starting.Ā
āN-no, Iām sorry,ā you manage. āGreg, youāre hurting me, youāre pulling my hair.āĀ
āThought you liked that?ā He smirked. Not once had you ever liked having your hair pulled. Not once had you ever said that to him in any context.Ā
āYouāre hurting me!ā You repeated. His hand eased out of your hair but his grip on your arm turned into a grip on your shoulder, just as hard. It hurt. You could feel it bruised already. āGreg, off, please.āĀ
He made a noise sort of like a whine, his breath horrible. āBut I missed you, thought we could have some fun when you came back.ā He kissed you. He kissed you. He kissed you. You didnāt want to kiss him, you wanted air, you didnāt want his hand down your waistband. āDonāt fight, pretty, come on. I know you want this.āĀ
No, you didnāt. You didnāt let it get so far without a fight. You were left to sleep alone as he stormed out. You tended to the injuries from earlier, the āstairsā incident, plus the new injuries youād have to make stories for because youād be hanging out with Art and Patrick again. But the bruise that was already forming on your cheekbone looked bad enough that you texted Art saying you couldnāt make it tomorrow and you cried into your knees.Ā
Makeup didnāt do a very good job, especially when every time something healed, there was something new. You did see Art a few days later when Greg had gone āfishingā with a friend. The bruise on your cheek had faded, but not enough. Makeup hardly fixed it either. āBall to the face,ā you sighed, pressing your lips into a straight line when Art noticed it. He grimaced. āI mean at least my partner has upped her miles per hour but itāsā¦ā
āOuch,āĀ
āYeah,ā you chuckled, walking next to him. āSo I was thinking maybe we could hang out Tuesday night.āĀ
He looked at you, āYou have something in mind?ā As if he could say no.Ā
āYes, actually. Itās like an improv show thing, itāll probably be awful. We can get candy and make fun of them behind their backs.ā You smiled just a little.Ā
He grinned, bowing his head just a little, āSounds perfect.āĀ
āThought so,ā you laughed, nudging him a little so he walked off the sidewalk and onto the grass. He tried to nudge you back, but you dodged him and he nearly tripped down the hill you were walking next to. You laughed, but it only laughed so long as his expression turned into the determination to get you back for it. He chased you down the hill until it became a rolling matter, both of you falling into the lush grass and rolling down the last bit of it. He rolled into you, turning it into a chaotic tumble that slowed to a halt with him on top of you. Art breathed out hard, eyes meeting yours, his breath smelling like the mint gum he was chewing. You smiled first with your eyes and then the grin spread up your face. āOuch,ā you mumbled, almost a whisper. His eyes lingered on yours, his face hovering just above you.Ā
His eyes flickered from your eyes to your lips and his brain told him to move, but he didnāt want to. But he had to. You were taken. It would be wrong. But you didnāt move either. You were both breathing hard, smiling at your compromising position until Art did move. Though maybe you didnāt want him to. āYouāre okay?āĀ
āI will be,ā you replied. He helped you up and once again, your faces were just inches apart. It was dangerous, wanting you.Ā
Greg threatened obscene things in the face of if you ever were to leave him. Heād tell your secrets, said heād end his life, said heād hurt you. You cried. A lot. For hours, later. He was terrifying. You cried so hard your eyes were completely bloodshot the next day. Your girlfriends were concerned, but you played it off as allergies.Ā
You saw Art another day and it was good to talk to him about everything and nothing. He was a good distraction from the throbbing pain in your ribs from Gregās reaction to you mentioning a celebrity crush. He had been drunk. Too drunk. And you couldnāt get away fast enough.Ā
Tuesday rolled around. You kept your hair down to hide the bruise on your temple. It still ached, along with where your hair was pulled once again when you refused to have sex with Greg again. He was sitting bitter on your bed, angry still. You put on your jean shorts and a t-shirt. āWhere you going dressed like that?āĀ
You looked up, āLike what?āĀ
āWhy the fuck do you instantly talk back? Whatās your fucking problem. Iām asking you where you think youāre going dressed like a slut?āĀ
Your eyebrows furrowed, āJust getting dessert with Bea from my tennis program. Sheās got this-āĀ
āGo change.ā
You werenāt looking for a fight. You put on jeans and a sweater. It made you five minutes late to meet Art and you hated it. You looked at Art with sadness in your eyes and he recognized it but didnāt know what it was. āAre you okay?ā He knew you.Ā
āYeah, can we justā¦ go make fun of bad improv?ā
āI brought the gummy worms,ā he nodded. You leaned slightly against him as you walked down to the outdoor theatre. You were glad to be out for the evening. Glad to be away from Greg and his anger and his hurtful words and the way he treated you. Art was the calm. He was the safety. He didnāt even know it, but he was what kept you going. If you ever got away from Greg, maybe youād tell Art how you felt. As the feelings for Greg dissipated, your feelings for Art resurfaced.Ā
āThe clown bit was actually so good,ā you laughed, walking back up the steps of the campus theatre. āReminded me of what Patrick said the first time we got high.āĀ
His eyes widened and he swallowed the gummy worm he was eating, āMm- I was thinking the same thing. It was him for sure.āĀ
āYou think Iād be a good clown?āĀ
āMmm, no.ā He shook his head. āYour feet arenāt big enough.āĀ
āAnd yours are?āĀ
āOne, who said anything about me being a clown and two, big feet are supposed to mean something, right?āĀ
You laughed, āShut up, so boyish.āĀ
His hand brushed your upper arm, just slightly, and you were all too aware of it. In fact, you were all-too aware of how close you walked to him. It was always an unconscious thing. A forever type thing, always walking close, always leaning against each other in the cafeteria lines, always near each other- never near enough. He then nudged your arm again, this time on purpose, so you opened your hand so that he could dump a few more gummy worms in it and you just smiled. It had never, not once, been more apparent that finding someone to replace your feelings for Art was a mistake. Not when this boy, blonde curls and crooked grin was putting a pile of gummy worms in your hand. Wordlessly. Seamlessly. He just got you and the feeling to kiss him right there, right then was overwhelming. And wrong.Ā
It was wrong. You pressed your lips together for a moment before eating a gummy worm. If your boyfriend was around heād smack them right out of your hand saying you donāt need more sugar. Maybe thatās why he was so bitter, you thought. Lack of sugar. You tried not to think too hard about the urges Art brought with him. He was so lovely, he was such an escape, and he was only your best friend. It was all he could be. You had no idea he was fighting the very same urge, paying extra attention to the fact he didnāt even have to ask you to open your hand, you just knew. But it was wrong. You had a boyfriend.Ā
You said goodbye to Art at the entrance to your building, rather than your dorm. If Greg heard you talking out there, youād be in for something for sure. āThanks for coming out with me tonight-ā you started. āI needed it.āĀ
Artās hands slunk into his pocket and he tilted his head just a little, āYeah, about that. Youāre doing okay?āĀ
āOh, yeah, my mood lately has been down, itās nothing big. Iām just extra appreciative of anything that brings it back up.āĀ
His eyes were understanding and a little apologetic. āIf you want we can do something tomorrow? See a movie or play Scrabble or something stupid. We can get takeout? Takeout and going through Patrickās Facebook and making fun of him.ā
That made you grin. You scrunched your nose just a little, āThat sounds good! Really good. Iāll call you tomorrow and Iāll let you know. I have to check with Greg.ā Of course you did. Greg. Fuck. āBut Iāll call you, I promise.ā
āOkay,ā he nodded. His gaze lingered on your lips. He wished they wouldnāt. He wished his mind wasnāt on who you were going back to after he said goodbye. He walked back to his dorm room in this perpetual state of angst and longing. There was no pain like it. Ever. In any part of his life heād never known a greater emotional turmoil. You werenāt his. And he loved you, he didnāt even like you, he loved you and he knew it and you didnāt and there was nothing he could do.Ā
He went back to his dorm and got into bed in his jeans and his shoes, not bothering to turn the light off, not bothering to pull the covers over himself. He just hugged his pillow and thought about you and it and everything until he fell asleep. You didnāt have that luxury.Ā
āYouāre late,ā Greg said, sitting on your bed. Heād been smoking in your room, you could smell it. Potent and cheap, assaulting your nose. Youād give anything to walk out and not return, but this room was yours. If you left now, heād have you back in your room with some threat or worse. āCare to tell me why?āĀ
āI thought I was home early?ā You set your bag down on the chair. āYou said 11.āĀ
āI said 10:30,ā he replied.Ā
āDid you?āĀ
āDid I stutter?āĀ
āNo. Look, Iām tired, can we just go to bed?āĀ
āOf course we can, doll,ā he smirked a little bit evilly. You sighed, running your hand over the back of your neck. He wanted to fuck you. And you wanted to go to bed. āCome over here.āĀ
āGreg, Iām tired,āĀ
āToo tired?āĀ
āYes. Iām too tired. Iām just going to wash my face and go to bed.āĀ
āFuck you.āĀ
āGreg, thatās uncalled for.ā You said, standing your ground, just a little. āIām just tired.āĀ
He shook his head, āYeah? You go out for hours and come back and donāt even want to fuck. Sounds an awful lot like youāre getting your fill somewhere else. Hm?āĀ
You pressed your hand to your temple, āIt means Iām tired, god, Greg, Iām not cheating.ā And some voice in your head told you that you wished you were. āPlease.ā You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door, just in case. You washed your face and changed into your pajamas before getting in bed next to his heavy scent. As he wrapped an arm around your waist you thought maybe you could tune him out, but his hand slipped over your chest, coming to rest with your breast in his hand. You couldnāt pretend anything. He was himself. Even if you wished it was someone else, it wasnāt.Ā
The next morning, he was gone. Where to? You had no idea. You were just glad. You spent the morning with windows open, cleaning your things, wiping down surfaces and sorting laundry, spraying air freshener. And it dawned on you to call Art. Greg wasnāt around. You hadnāt asked him, but you would make some excuse, maybe.Ā
āHey!ā You greeted him, laying back on your bed, fresh sheets beneath you. āYou still want to get takeout and make fun of Patrickās facebook?āĀ
Art walked to the side of the tennis court, his partner yelling at him to make it quick. He smiled, sitting on the bleachers. āYeah, if youāre up for it. My dorm, around seven? Does that work?ā His smile grew to a grin.Ā
āThat works,ā you replied, smiling too. āWho is yelling at you right now?āĀ
āMy partner for singles today,ā he answered with a chuckle. āHeās telling me to get back on the court.āĀ
āDoesnāt he know youāre super busy making super important plans?āĀ
He looked at his partner, frustrated in waiting on the court. āThatās what Iām saying.ā
āRight?ā You rolled onto your stomach. āIāll let you get back to him, Iāll see you later, Art.āĀ
āSee you later, Y/N,ā he said. You wished he didnāt have to go. You had nothing to do, Greg wasnāt around. Patrick was touring for another week before he came back around here. You decided to go out and meet up with some girlfriends for the afternoon. It was nice to be out and unbothered by having a set time to be home. There was no pressure. Greg didnāt call or text, not once, and it was a strange sort of peace. You talked to your friends about tennis and classes and their current crushes and it was fun and it was good. You retired back to your dorm around six thirty, showered, and did a little makeup. You were just about to leave to meet Art when Greg walked in.
It was like the light was sucked out of the room along with all the air. Or the fresh air. He smelled gross. He tasted worse, kissing you disgustingly. āHey baby, I missed you,ā he slurred. He needed to shave. āWhere you headed?āĀ
āBeaās,ā you replied. āSheās having a movie night.āĀ
āStay,ā he breathed. āMissed you all day. Need to feel you.ā He disgusted you. Hands on your chest with the door not even closed yet from his entry. āCome on, doll. Said no yesterday, canāt say no today.āĀ
āNo.ā
āDonāt give me that attitude, come on. Iām being nice.āĀ
āGreg, I have plans, Iām going to be late,ā you tried to laugh it off nervously, but his hand was around your wrist in seconds. āGreg, please. Come on.āĀ
He narrowed his eyes, āYouāre staying. Bea can fucking wait. Donāt your little friends know that Iām more important than them? Jesus christ, the company you keep.āĀ
You avoided his gaze. His hand slipped down to undo his belt. You debated running. Heād catch you, he was fast. You debated an argument. You didnāt want to fuck him, you didnāt want to have sex with him. He was expecting it more than wanting it. Like all you were was some object, some toy, some possession. His eyes were dark with lust and his words laced with alcohol. You were afraid of him. āGreg, I have to go. Iāll be back around eleven.āĀ
āYouāre not fucking going,ā Greg made it known. Flat out. He shut the door behind him.Ā
āI am. I made the plans, I canāt bail.āĀ
āFor me, yes you fucking can.ā He said, pushing you back onto the bed. āCome on, Y/N. Youāll like it soon enough.āĀ
āNo. Greg. Iām serious. I have to go.āĀ
āYou know better than to talk back to me,ā he warned. As if you were a dog. Or a child. āYou donāt fucking listen? Youāre not going out. Cut the attitude before you regret it.āĀ
āGreg.āĀ
āWhat did I fucking say?ā He yelled, then dropped his voice. It was nasty, his breath, his tone. āIām gonna fuck you and youāre gonna like it.āĀ
āNo-ā his blow came like lightning through your body. A shock. A volt. And then the sting. āGreg, please-ā another. And more. And then he left again. You couldnāt move. You didnāt want to, it hurt. Your ribs ached, your head pulsed. Your lip was bleeding. What could you do but cry and cry and cry? You wanted to call Art, you really did, but you knew if you cried on the phone heād come over here and with Greg on the loose, it wasnāt a good idea. So you curled up into a ball and cried yourself to sleep.Ā
Art sat in his dorm room waiting all night for you. Until about 2 am, when he gave up calling and texting and went to bed. You called him the next morning and he didnāt pick up.Ā
You couldnāt reschedule for any day nearby because of your fat lip and new bruises. Greg came back and apologized like usual, dismissing the purple and blue on your face. His doing. His work. When he was in the bathroom, you called Art again, leaving a quiet voicemail.Ā
āArt, Iām so sorry about my no-show last night. Something came up and I couldnāt make it and Iām so sorry I didnāt call or text. I feel like such an asshole. But next week, for sure. Weāll do whatever you want, my treat. I want to make it up to you, I feel terrible about this. Please call or text me when you get this. Iām sorry.ā
Art gazed over his screen. He wasnāt sure how to feel. Loving you was choking him out and these no-shows and being late and canceling, it was justā¦ too much. You were you and you were everything he could ever want, but you had other priorities, it seemed. He could want you all he wanted, wish for you as often as he could, but you didnāt wish the same. That was all he knew, not knowing the whole truth. Not calling him that night was one of the hardest things to do, but it was for safety.Ā
You couldnāt even see Art if you wanted to for a few days. Not until the bruises faded enough to be covered by clever concealer. You wanted so desperately to go over to his dorm. You wanted to see your friends. Anything to feel better. Anything to get out of this fucking room, but you called in sick to your classes and worked on the material in your room, completely unable to really exist in the outside world. It was just you and Greg in this tiny little room. And he didnāt stop the aggression. You couldnāt escape it.Ā
You called Art again when he left for an hour or two to go to the bar. You had stifled your crying, feeling so completely alone, needing to hear his voice. Maybe heād save you for even a moment. He was the light, he made things better.Ā
He picked up this time. āHey.ā It was singular, a little quiet.Ā
āArt, hi,ā you said. You werenāt sure why you were so overwhelmed with emotion at his simple greeting. āDid you get my messages? I left a voicemail, god, Iām so sorry for the other night.Ā We made plans and I made a commitment but I got tangled up. I wanted to call, Iām so sorry I didnāt.ā You gushed. āI understand if youāre angry. I know I promised you I wouldnāt do what I did, but you have to believe I didnāt mean to. And Iām really sorry.āĀ
He was quiet for a moment. āI know.ā He wasnāt sure what to say. What you did wasnāt okay, but it was you, so heād always forgive. āI get it.ā But he didnāt. āYou have a boyfriend, I canāt expect you to be free all the time. Itās fine.ā But it wasnāt.Ā
āArt, really, I-āĀ
āI forgive you. Just call me next time? Please.ā His words were so easy, it hurt you. āI heard your voicemail, if you still want to make it up to me, Iām free Friday night. Thereās a party, Patrick wants to go. You should come with us.āĀ
You squeezed your eyes shut. A party would be hard to lie about. But it was Art and he was asking and you so desperately wanted to see him that you agreed. You agreed. And the conversation mellowed into something normal. Your usual conversation and banter, slight teases, and warm words. And it felt better. You had plans for Friday and that was that. You wouldnāt let anything or anyone stop you this time.Ā
Getting ready for the party with Greg around sucked. You did your makeup modestly, you couldnāt look too nice or heād stop you from leaving. The concealer didn't quite cover the bruise, but your lip had healed over pretty nicely. The dim lighting would be your friend for sure. You put on a long skirt over a mid-length one. You couldnāt be too careful, he once called a skirt slightly above the knee slutty. And you wore a dollar store t-shirt over your black tank top.Ā
āWhere are you going?ā Greg asked.Ā
āSleepover at Beaās, remember?ā You said. You loved lying to him. It was the best you could get away with. āYou said I could go.āĀ
āYeah. Itās fine. Talk to you later.ā He didnāt make you stay or make you kiss him goodbye, which was a relief. You walked over to Artās dorm with what felt like pep in your step. You didnāt have to be home at any certain time, you were free to roam, to have fun. Greg wouldnāt know. Greg couldnāt know. Patrick let you into Artās room. Heād been debriefed on the stunt you pulled, but he couldnāt hold it against you.Ā
āYou look like youāre going to church,ā he remarked, looking over your outfit.
Ā Art peered over from where he sat, āAmish?āĀ
You chuckled, pulling the shirt off over your head. Both boys were a little taken aback as you tossed the shirt to Artās laundry. āNot quite.ā You undid the button on the side of your skirt and took that off as well, revealing the shorter skirt underneath. You were beautiful, Art thought. He always thought it. But that was because you always were. Wanting you was hard and disruptive and wrong, he reminded himself. But you stood there and everything reminded him of just how fucked he was. Head over heels for a taken girl. Both of them were too distracted to pay attention to the covered-up bruise on your outer thighs. They didnāt pay close enough attention to the multitude of bracelets that covered the bruised fingerprints on your wrist. Your face was another story. Another lie.Ā
Artās mouth was just a little open, watching you shed the outer layer of clothes. Patrick tossed you a shooter. āSo whatās with the coverup?āĀ
You thought he meant your makeup over the bruise on your face and you held your breath for a half-second. He meant the clothes. āOh, Greg wouldnāt like me out in a skirt and tank top.ā You tried not to cringe at the words. Were they telling?
āWhy does Greg have a say in that?ā Patrick replied, leaning forward in his chair just a little. Art looked away, he had to. His face would say something he didnāt want you to know. Patrick was overstepping, he couldnāt bear that either.Ā
You unscrewed the cap of the shooter, āHeās notā¦ I donāt know. But I donāt give a fuck, Iām going out anyway,ā you said, trying to ignore that line of questioning. āIām in the skirt and the shirt. Thoughts?ā You did a little spin. Art couldnāt take his eyes off of you. You were so perfect it hurt. It hurt.Ā
āHot.ā Patrick nodded. He unscrewed his own shooter, standing and grabbing one to pass to Art. Art pushed past his thoughts and the three of you did a little ācheersā, downing the small bottles. You would take hot. Hot was good. Hot was the opposite of how you were feeling. Greg made you feel so gross, it was hard to be anything else. And with staying cooped up in your room, bruised and marinating in the feeling of being ugly- so hot was good. He said what Art was thinking. It was a little less than he thought, but it was a good summary.Ā
The three of you headed out soon after, drinking on the way. You were leaning on Art as you walked, the three of you laughing at some inside joke. Your laugh was beautiful and rang out in the street. With the soft buzz of alcohol in his head, on his skin, you were an angel. You were always an angel, bathed in streetlight. And your hand was around his bare forearm and boundaries with you were always blurry but this felt odd. He was enjoying it, it was wrong, but he was letting it pass with the excuse of the alcohol. Your hand was so soft on his skin, the perfect temperature, perfect everything. When were you not perfect?Ā
āOkay so Patrick is set on bringing a girl back- but bringing a girl back where?ā You laughed, turning onto one of the little pathways between the rented residencies.Ā
āI donāt think heās thought that far ahead,ā Art chuckled, nudging Patrick just a little. Patrick raised his hands in surrender, both hands filled with shooters. His pockets were also full. āYou were going to say my dorm room, werenāt you?ā
āNasty,ā you teased. āPoor Art. He sleeps in that bed, you know.āĀ
āUh-huh. Youāre one to talk, youāve always got some form of hickey on your neck, you donāt even try to hide it. Me, nasty? You.ā Your hand immediately flew to the side of your neck. āSit with that one.āĀ
Artās heart always fell at the mention of it. Every time, without fail. You moved away from him just slightly at the mention. You would usually have a retort to something like that. But you didnāt. Your hand just stayed on the side of your neck, covering the fingerprint bruises you didnāt know were visible. You pulled your hair over it. āPass me another shooter, please.āĀ
Art, sweet, feeling pretty shitty over the way he was viewing you, stayed quiet. Mostly. Until you were just outside the party. Patrick pat him on the shoulder, heading in right away. Art, sweet, stopped you with the extension of his arm. āYouāre quiet.ā He said.Ā
āSo were you,ā you replied.Ā
āJust wondering if youāre okay?ā He said. Posing it as a question. āYouāve seemed upset since we were at mine, I just wanted to know before we go in there and itās too loud and I get too drunk to ask.āĀ
āYouāve never been too drunk you ask,ā you smiled. You were standing a little bit close to him, your toes inches from touching. āYou got soooo drunk at the Millerās party last year and you still asked me if I was having fun. I wasnāt and we left and you threw up, remember?āĀ
āI donāt,ā he chuckled, eyes soft. But he nodded, āYouāre okay?āĀ
āYeah, Iām okay. I need more to drink and I want to find Bea and dance. My plans. Your plans?āĀ
āDrink and save women from Patrick,ā he nodded, his grin coming back.Ā
You, just a little clouded from alcohol, pressed your palm to the side of his face just for a second. āYouāre a saint, Art Donaldson.ā He felt his skin flush. Your hand slipped away and went down his forearm once again, pulling him into the party. It was natural you let go of him, Art made a beeline for Patrick who was already talking to some girl. She was weird, flirted with Art too once he showed up.Ā
You needed to lie to Greg more often, you thought, taking a shot from some girl you shared a 3pm class with. Beaās hands on your hips, dancing together, hands raised over your heads. This was living, this was uncontrolled, unbridled by any abuse, any threat. You could have fun and not feel guilty about it after. Greg had too much trust in a girl he hit. You felt- though you werenāt- free. Just a little bit.Ā
Art watched you with Bea, watched the way you moved. He was out of it. Just a little. Not too drunk at all. But enough. Numb, watching you. Hard, watching you. He hid a little behind Patrick to hide it, watching your hips sway, watching how close you and your best friend were. He couldnāt have cared less about Bea. Just you.Ā
He should have told you he liked you in high school. Not saying anything had to be one of the biggest regrets of his entire life. You were perfect for him in every way and you were warm and inviting and you were witty and fun and you knew each other like the backs of your hands and it would have been worth it to tell you. He knew that, looking at you, that it would have been easiest to tell you when he still could. He was bitter about it. A missed chance. Patrick told him heād regret it and watching you under purple lights, he knew Patrick had been right. It was all bullshit.Ā
Patrick suddenly grabbed Artās arm pretty hard, yanking him closer, āThat guy over there. Thatās Greg, right?ā He said, voice low even in the loudness of the party. He gestured over to the guy in the weird sweater and jeans, leaned up against the wall, arm hanging above a short hardly-dressed girl. Faces close. So close. Noses touching kind of close.Ā
āOh, fuck,ā Art breathed, eyes locked on them, watching Gregās hand touch just under this girlās chin. You didnāt know Greg was there, that was apparent. But of course, the dirtbag was. Artās heart pounded hard in his chest. He looked back at Patrick, whose expression was filled with hatred. As it should be because what the fuck? Regardless of how much he was rooting for Art, always rooting for Art, Greg was still the guy you were with. Your boyfriend. And he was with someone else.Ā
āI need a reason not to fuck him up right now,ā Patrick said. āWhat the fuck do we do?āĀ
āI donāt know.ā Art answered truthfully. āShe doesnāt know heās here, he doesnāt know sheās here.āĀ
Patrick shook his head, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, visibly pissed off. At least Patrick could be pissed off, Artās stomach was just in knots. It was almost nonsensical. No way he would cheat on you. You? You were everything, you were gorgeous in all ways and you had a personality. How could he cheat? He looked back over at Greg in a liplock with this other girl and the anger did rise, but his eyes fell back on you and it eased. This was fucked all around. Every bit of this was fucked up. āWe have to tell her, we canāt keep it to ourselves.āĀ
āI agree but how are we going to say it? Weāre in a crowd of people, itās not exactly fun news.āĀ
āFucking asshole. Iām pissed. Heās slobbering all over that girl like a fucking dog. You know, I shouldā¦ā
Art couldnāt keep listening to Patrickās rant. He didnāt even want to look back at Greg. But Greg was very obviously invested in his cheating schemes. Art wondered how long heād been doing it to you. How long had this guy been cheating? Did you not satisfy him? How could you not satisfy him, you sported hickeys so often and you were late to meet up and it was all sickening, but it didnāt add up. This guy was the world's most unsatisfied, apparently. It, he, was disgusting. Art felt his face crinkle up just thinking about it, but he had to now. Your feelings were in the balance here.Ā
ā- in the face. Knock his goatee right off. Art. Art, Iām telling her.āĀ
āPatrick, give me a fucking second,ā Art said, holding a hand up. He looked back at you, Bea pouring a shot in your mouth. You were smiling. Grinning. And you were beautiful and he hated the idea that youād stop soon. Fuck. Neither of you deserved this. Not you, not Art. āWeāll tell her itās time to go and then weāll tell her outside, no bullshit.āĀ
Patrick nodded, āThis is bad.āĀ
āYeah.āĀ
āIām so fucking angry.āĀ
āI know.ā Artās heart was leaping out of his chest. He held his hand out and Patrick dug in his pocket for a stronger shooter. Art drank it all quickly, letting it burn his throat. His heart didnāt slow even a bit. āFuck.āĀ
Patrick leaned over to the girl who heād just been talking to, saying something about having to leave. Art watched her roll her eyes and walk away. It was fair, sheād been standing there for a bit listening to him trash talk your boyfriend. Art rubbed his eyes, trying to sober up just a little, but after that shooter, it was a little bit pointless. Regret seemed to be a theme around here. āHeās gone.ā Patrick said. Art let the fuzz from rubbing his eyes melt and sure enough, Greg wasnāt where he was before. Just a little panicked, he set his eyes on you. There he was, towering over you, rage in his eyes. It was clear to Art what was going through your head, he knew you too well, you were cowering. Patrick was still scanning the crowd for Greg, but Art watched as Gregās fingers locked onto your upper arm and he yanked you so hard that your shoulder went funny for a second.Ā
Art, a little shocked, watching him drag you out of sight. And he launched into action. He started into the sea of people dancing, drinking, leaving Patrick behind. Patrick was faced the other way, by the time Art was absorbed into the crowd, it was a little late to find even him. Art pushed through people, trying to keep his sight on you, but he lost you in it. āFuck, fuck, fuck,ā he mumbled. Heād never seen anyone grab anyone the way Greg just grabbed you. It was violent and harsh and the way it happened, it couldnāt have been good in any way. He pushed through people, accidentally pushing a guy as he passed him, the guy went to push back but Art just darted out of the way. He made his way to the door, you werenāt around it, so you had to have left.Ā
āArt Donaldson, my man,ā one of his tennis buddies greeted him, stepped in front of him and Art just stepped around him, trying to find you. You, where were you? His heart rate was raised higher than heād ever felt it. Rapid, as if heād run a mile. He ran out onto the street, looking around, but there wasnāt any sight of you. What he would do when he found you, he had no idea, he just knew he needed to find you. Nobody just grabbed someone like that with good intentions.Ā
Greg wasnāt a good guy and he knew that, he just thought it was his bias. That maybe he was overreacting, but it didnāt look so much that way now. āGreg, please!ā You yelled from his left. Art turned his head to see two figures head into one of the thin alleyways between buildings. He could hear a man speaking back to you, Greg, obviously, but his voice was too much of a growl to understand. Art started jogging toward the sound, cautiously. āIām sorry, Iām sorry, okay, Iām sorry I lied,ā you cried out.Ā
āLittle fucking whore. Lie to me to go party with your friends? Dance on some fucking guy, cheat one me? Thatās what you wanted?ā Artās heart was about to break his ribs. He ran just a little faster.
āNo, fuck, Greg, stop! I was with Bea, I was with Bea!āĀ
āAt a fucking party. If you wanted to be a slut you could have said so. Fucking lying to me, youāre disgusting. Fucking bitch.āĀ
āGreg!āĀ
āDonāt even start talking back to me now! Youāre a lying, cheating whore who deserves to be treated like one!āĀ
Art was almost there, he wasnāt sure what heād do. āGreg, donāt fucking touch me. Iām dead serious, Iāll scream. Get off me, get off me you asshole!āĀ
The sound of the blow made Artās entire body go cold. He felt himself drain of colour, he felt his heart stop for just a second. It was a sickening noise. The entirety of him tensed up to a point he felt like a coiled spring, his chest tight, ribs pressing in. He hit you, that was the sound of him hitting you, he hit you. Art made it over and came at Greg with a surprising force, shoving him off of you and onto the ground. He was drunk, it was easy to do. Your hand grabbed Artās upper arm, but missed as Artās body followed through with the movement.Ā
āWhat the fuck?!ā Greg exclaimed. You moved behind Art, backward, away. Tears streamed down your face, you were choking on sobs, cradling the side of your face with one hand and your upper arm with the other. Art stepped back with you. He was so angry he himself couldnāt breathe. He couldnāt look at you, he kept his eyes on Greg, breathing hard. Shoving was tame, shoving him off of you was going to have to be enough, Art wasnāt violent. The shock of all this hadnāt settled, it wouldnāt settle. āWho the fuck are you, tough guy?ā Greg advanced on Art who was nimble, but between anti-car poles, stuck. Shoved against the wall, he just avoided having his head hit the wall by putting his hand up.Ā
āArt!ā You yelled. āGreg, stop! GREG!ā You screamed, you hoped someone would come. You hoped someone would call the cops.Ā
āArt fucking Donaldson, huh?ā Greg smirked, face close to Artās. āYou been fucking my girlfriend? Hm? This the one, Y/N, really? Just friends my ass, you probably came here with him.āĀ
āFuck you,ā Art seethed. Greg was bigger than him.Ā
āGet off of him, Greg, Iām begging you, donāt hurt him!āĀ
Greg fumed, āUsed me to get over him, huh? Big-eared, fuckass, twinkie little pretty boy, here?āĀ
āShut up!ā You yelled. Your head pounded, your skin stung. āStop. Now. Iāll call the police, Iāll get someone to call the police, Greg, get off of him!āĀ
Art shoved Greg backward again, but he just walked right back. āI donāt want to fight you.ā Art said, his eyes dark. āFuck off. Leave her alone, fuck off.āĀ
āHeās playing prince charming, Y/N. Youāve been fucking him on the side. Yeah, thatās why you never put out, you slut. Getting his pathetic skinny boy dick on the side.ā Art kneed Greg in the groin, pushing him off again and stepping over to you. āOh, youāre fucking dead.ā His eyes burned with rage and he came at Art with a pouncing force, grabbing him and bringing him down to the ground. You screamed, watching Greg tackle Art to the pavement. The brawl began, Greg holding Art down, trying to punch him but being blocked. Art wasnāt violent, he was avoiding hurting Greg. For you. For your sake. You had no choice, you had to intervene. What was a few more bruises? You tried to push Greg off, but he kept at it, trying to hurt Art.Ā
āHey! Hey, what the fuck!ā It was Patrick and he dragged you out of this with too much ease, putting you to the side and going right back to push Greg off of Art and onto his back. A bystander behind Patrick had their phone out, calling 911, thank god. You watched in pure shock, Art get punched in the shoulder rather than the head and in a swift blow, Patrick punched Greg in the jaw. And he went limp. You grabbed Art, you grabbed whatever you could on him, his shirt, his opposite shoulder, on your knees. He looked at you with eyes sadder than youād ever seen them. You moved closer.Ā
His hand reached up to your face desperately but also gently, despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins. āYouāre okay? Youāre okay.āĀ
āIām okay,ā you nodded a little too much, looking him over just as he looked you over, noting the way your cheekbone was bleeding. He really hit you. āGod, are you okay? Iām so sorry, Art, Iām so sorry.ā You were crying a steady stream of tears, lip trembling, and you were still so beautiful.Ā
āDonāt be sorry, donāt be sorry,ā he said, trying to wipe your tears a little more desperately than he had just done. āHe hit you, he hurt you, how-āĀ
āI wanted to tell you. I was scared. I was so scared heād do something awful. I donāt love him, I donāt want him, I want you. I want you, Iāve wanted you.ā You blurted, sobbing just a little more. Art messily moved your hair out of your face. āArt, I-āĀ You were crying so hard, it was hard to breathe. āI couldnāt leave him.ā You looked over at Patrick shaking his hand out, at Gregās unconscious self. Hands gentle, he turned your head away from it.Ā
Artās lips were just a little parted, eyes looking over the damage to your face. āHow long has he been?āĀ
āA long time,ā you swallowed hard. āThree months in, maybe two- two and a half.ā You said, biting your lip trying to stop crying. āI wanted to leave him. I wanted to so badly, but I couldnāt. Heās- heās why I didnāt show up those times, I wanted to be there, but heādā¦ he wasā¦ Iām sorry.āĀ
āWhy are you sorry, you have nothing to be sorry for, this isnāt your fault,ā he said, bracing you with soft hands. āItās okay. Heās not getting close to you ever again, Patrick is making sure of that.āĀ
āHe was right about the using him part, I was using him to get over you and it was- wrong. It was wrong and he started hurting me and then it was too late to get out.ā
In the heat of the moment, your āI want youās had slipped past him. He wanted to make sure you were okay, he wasnāt focused on that. You were blurting things out, heād missed it. His eyebrows furrowed, he lowered his head just a bit, āOver me? What do you mean?ā His judgment also wasnāt the best. But it didnāt matter. You sat up just a little, still clinging onto his clothes, hands shaking. With Greg out, going to be out of the picture the words just spilled from your mouth. Rolling off your tongue in light of what was soon to be true freedom.Ā
āIāve wanted you forever, god, it kills me that I never said anything. Itās you, itās been you, I donāt know why I thought I could ever try and be with anyone to forget that. Itās just, youāve neverā¦āĀ
āWhat? No, no. Iāve liked you since I met you, we were twelve, it was bad and itās been you. You never said anything either-ā the sound of a cop car approaching interrupted. āYou liked me?āĀ
āYes! So much. Too much, sometimes. God, Iām so stupid.ā You were crying still, even more now. āYou justā¦ you never said anything, so I never said anything and then I got stuck, but it never stopped. Itās bad, itās so bad, I probably love you, itās awful.ā The alcohol was still running the conversation.Ā
āThat is awful,ā Art chuckled just a little bit. On the pavement with you, cop car approaching, lights flashing. This conversation would be over in a minute. Your eyes met his, sad, angry, mutual thoughts and mutual expressions.Ā
āItās bad?ā You smiled just a little through your tears.Ā
He grinned just a little, āI've been in love with you for as long as I've known what being in love feels likeā
Artās thumb wiped your tears with a little less desperation now. His heart and yours were still beating hard. āThatās so bad, thatās six years,āĀ
āI know.ā He said, grinning his wide crooked grin. The conversation had strayed from the real problem, but it was a good distraction. A welcomed one, in fact. Proof that things could and would be better. āItās okay. Are you going to be okay?āĀ
āIām going to be okay,ā you nodded. The policemen, two of them walked over and began their spiel, asking about what happened and Art helped you to your feet. The night was still young, the persecution was easy to figure and a diary you kept detailing his abuse was a great help to the case. You, Patrick, and Art all spent the night at the police station with forms and questions and people trying to get a grasp on the situation. A blurry security camera was also a great amount of help. Greg was charged properly, put away. It was easy to see who was the real problem. You sat with ice to your face in one of the police chairs, being offered therapy and counseling and numbers to call for trauma and crisis. Everyone was so sweet, one of the policewomen held your hand for a good while until it stopped shaking.Ā
You still cried a lot. Sorry that everyone had to go through this just because you couldnāt leave a guy. Just because you had tried to forget your feelings for Art in someone else. But the words, āitās not your faultā were thrown around a lot. And that youād be safe. And it felt good to know. Youād sobered back up, obviously. So did the boys. You had the most extensive questioning, the boys waited in the main room.Ā
āAll the excuses, the ball to the face, the stairsā¦ā Patrick sighed heavily, staring forward into a void.Ā
āIt was him.ā Art nodded. āI feel like such an idiot, how the fuck did I not know? I know her better than myself, she hid it and I didnāt want to think about her and Greg. It wasā¦ it hurt.ā He admit. Patrick looked over at Art.Ā
āHeās gone. He wonāt hurt her again. If he tries, best believe Iām doing more than knocking his ass out. I canāt fucking believe this shit. Iām glad I got off, but jesus fucking christ, I wish Iād done enough to be behind those bars.āĀ
āNo you donāt,ā Art sighed, leaning forward into his hands. āFuck. I didnāt even fight back.āĀ
āYouāre not that kind of guy,ā Patrick reasoned. āWhich is fine. You got him off her, that was all you needed to do.āĀ
āI guess, butā¦ fuck.āĀ
āShe told you she wanted you,ā He reminded Art with a slight sly smile on his lips. He gave Art a gentle little push off the shoulder. As if Art had been able to stop thinking about it. Heād sobered up just the same and the confession might have been badly timed, but at least it happened. He meant it, he hoped you did too. He was trying not to let it eat him alive alongside the fact your now-ex hit you and he hadnāt known. Maybe he missed the other clues? How did he not know? āShe likes you too. Itās all youāve wanted.āĀ
āI know,ā Art sighed. āAfter that, though?āĀ
āMeans sheās yours.āĀ
Art looked up and met Patrickās eyes, trying to verify if he meant it. As if Patrick was the dictator. But Patrick was only the reality. The gravity of the situation hung above him, but you were in front of him, free from the questioning. Your cheeks were pink and tear-stained still and your eyelashes were still wet. Patrick tipped his head toward you to gesture to Art and the second Art saw you, he was on his feet. His eyes were wide like a doeās, hands in his pockets.Ā
He met you halfway down the blue-painted precinct hallways. Your eyes said more than words did as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He pulled you in the rest of the way into a hug that had more sincerity and life than the walls had ever seen. His arms wrapped around your waist, grabbing onto the fabric of your shirt on your sides, holding you tight and close. He kissed your shoulder, his chin resting in your hair. āIām glad youāre okay.ā He mumbled. You shut your eyes for a moment, allowing him to envelop you in his arms. He held you so tight, it felt like he was keeping you from falling to pieces. It would take you a while to get over all of this, but right now, it felt like youād be okay.Ā
He was refreshingly cold, the precinct was warm and youād been upset, so of course you were warm. He held you for a minute or maybe five. Nobody had to use the hallway and anyone who did just went back around. Patrick didnāt watch, instead, he went to the counter to ask about getting a ride back to campus.Ā
Eventually, you pulled away from the hug. Not entirely, just almost. His arms slid over your back, his grip just loosening, not leaving. In fact you didnāt get very far in pulling away. Your heart beat fast in your chest. Even in the upset, even after the fact, Art was still your peace. He was quiet and he held you as long as you needed him to. He was always there and you knew he would be. With everything that happened just then, with that confessionā¦ Your forehead pressed against his. Gentle. Safe. You were safe. You felt safer here, like this, than you did in that room with the officers who asked you so many things.Ā
You looked at him through your eyelashes. He must have read your mind, he must have known you too well. With a tilt of your heads, your lips met. There was the slightest, softest bit of hesitation, but it was soothed over in seconds, your hand sliding to cup Artās cheek. He pulled you back in with slow, easy hands that didnāt grab too hard. The kiss was patient, calculated, and warm. It sent what felt like tiny sparks through all of your veins leaving goosebumps in their wake. It felt like completion, like a satisfying end to a movie, like putting a book back on the shelf after reading it. It was easy to kiss him, your heart slowed for the first time as his pace matched yours. However, out of understanding, the kiss wasnāt too long. Maybe a minute, nothing more.Ā
Youād been through something. He couldnāt be the one to fix all of that, but heād be there for you until it felt better. Stepping in now felt wrong, felt like it was one thing to another. You needed the time to yourself. Art didnāt kiss you again for another five months. All of which were spent the way they usually were, aside from being a little closer than usual and hanging out so much more. You were free to do as you pleased. Free to see him. Free to stay home- and you spent a good amount of your time alone healing. Physically and mentally.Ā
Patrick was often around to help you laugh it off, but when you needed to cry, Art was always right there. After some time, you were feeling like yourself again. And you were laughing too much, smiling all the time again, spinning in a new skirt and crashing into Art. Who you then kissed, after so much time thinking about it, replaying it, wanting it again. It was finally okay to do so. After seven years, it was only fitting that he welcomed it, fully, and entirely. You were giggling, your lips pressed to his, and he knew it was okay. There was no bruise on your cheekbone to be cautious of, both of his hands held your face, your head tilted back just a little as he kissed you the way you were meant to be kissed. The way Greg couldnāt. It would never mean so much.Ā
Greg was in your past, but Art was your past. And your future, now. Because now that you had each other, neither of you was going to let go. He promised you that between kisses. You promised it back.Ā
I just re-read this fic after forgetting everything about it and OH MY GOD????
Art not wanting to fight the abusive bf because then he would seem violent too? And though he is fighting for you, the most he does is shove the guy???
āI donāt want to fight youā while actively dodging punches and being pushed to the ground??!!!
Also after the police questioning, the KISS, the small kiss- but not kissing you for another five months, waiting patiently for you to heal from your relationship? UGH.
Heyo! I was doomscrolling (as one does cause life is āØboringāØ) and I found one of your fic recommendations and I made a community for content exactly like that so I was wondering if maybe youād wanna join??
just in case yall needed a 12 chapter, 35k word COMPLETED lawless byler ficā¦
Mike visits Will in NYC, well-aware of how he feels for Will- but Will is taken. And seems to be happy. Heāll later find out thatās not the case, but the two spend the day dipping into shared nostalgia, reflecting on their past selves, and emotionally cheating-
It comes to a head when Carlton shows them both just how bad a boyfriend he is, and at that point Will and Mike know he can do better. After a lengthy conversation, thereās a kiss (highly rated), followed by the crashing urge to do moreā¦
They give in, of course, tying in a first time blowjob- and itās interrupted by Carlton, who wants to talk things out with Will. Willās had enough though, and so has Mike, continuing what he started despite Will being on the phone.
A breakup ensues, as well as a cord yanked from a wall, and a happy ending in more ways than one.
Tagged with: Mike Wheeler loves Will Byers, first time blowjob, touch starved Will Byers, yearning Mike Wheeler, Neglectful Carlton, first kiss, art student Will Byers, Mike Wheeler is a giver, cheating, etc.
A New Shade of Blue by Assortedspoons on ao3
click hereeee and comment to let me know if you came from this post <3
A Byler fic about Mike coming to NYC, Winter Break 1992. Heās aware Will is taken, also aware of his feelings, but makes the trip anyway, thinking it wonāt be that bad.
Spoiler: It is. His feelings are so much stronger than he thought. Yearning Mike kinda suffers through the day, walking around the city with Will, seeing a new painting Will made that includes HIM, even though Will is takenā¦
Itās a mess of nostalgia, emotional cheating, yearning, and Will ends up being the one who crosses the line Mike has been trying not to cross all day, devolving into REAL cheating.
Thereās smut- Mike miiiiiight learn to suck dickā¦ For like three chapters, while Will tries to stay quiet on the phone with his boyfriendā¦ ending in a breakup.
if this sounds like something you might like, check out A New Shade of Blue by Assortedspoons on ao3.
Will and Mike could not pretend there was more than two feet between them now, standing in Willās living room, bathed in yellow lamplight.
Will looked afraid, but not unsure; his chest also rose and fell noticeably under his sweater. His eyes moved about Mikeās form, and if Mike didnāt know better, he would call it measuring. Mike didnāt dare move or interrupt. He would listen, he would always listen.
āYeah?ā replied Mike, just as quiet, just as breathless as Will.
Willās hand flexed at his side uselessly before the two feet between them then became one. And Will was now standing just below Mike, eyes still searching for something. Mikeās vision darkened around the edges, and suddenly it was very hard to hear anything aside from the whooshing thump of his own heart. His knees felt as if they were on the verge of collapse.
It was a quick look, Willās roving eyes unlanding, as if there was something he was mustering up the courage to say.
Would he speak? God, Mike desperately hoped he would say something to break the silence, to give him an out again, even if he talked about Carlton, Mike would listen gladly. Keenly, even.
He hoped Will would say something condemning, something real, something that might set a new boundary- anything really- to put him out of his misery or to put him in his place.
Mike was frozen with the most restraint heād felt all day, each of his limbs locked painfully, his own hands now shaking, stiff at his sides.
He could feel the muscles of his brow lock as well, furrowed as deeply as they went. His eyes moved unconsciously, down to Willās beauty mark, his shining lower lip, and the soft exhale he wanted to steal, more than anything heād ever wanted in his entire life.
Please, Will. He hoped Will could read his mind now, see how hard he was trying to be a good friend, as his heart begged for him to do the opposite. Please.
I know I haven't written anything in forever, but it's because I've lowkey spent the entire past month and a half working on my first ao3 fic!!! Scary.
It is a #byler fic, as in Mike Wheeler and Will Byers from Stranger Things, and I know that's not what I post about on here, but I know some of y'all go crazy for that kind of stuff, so I thought I'd come on here and tell you that it comes out Saturday, March 28th! Two days from now.
The fic will be published under the name 'A New Shade of Blue' after the Quinnie song (lol), and my username over there is Assortedspoons. Hope some of you come to visit me over there!
Push to Shove is my best Art fic. I come on here just to re-read it. Literally on here rn because I'm writing a kiss scene rn and I need to reference my best work.
