WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?

WHO IS HATING ART HE HAS A TOUGH ENOUGH LIFE ALREADY WITH A FLOPPY DICK AND SAD DIET

#WEFORGIVEARTDONALDSON !!!

happy challengers anniversary month to those who celebrate 🩷

A/N: So…Patrick’s sister, this was supposed to be shorter but I uh…I got carried away, enjoy anyway!! <33

As patricks sister, you always understood the dynamic; Patrick is the overprotective annoying older brother and you are the nerdy—he says— younger sister.

So obviously, growing up with him was an interesting experience to say the least.

Before going to MRTA, he’d usually bring his friends over after school, and of course you being the pretty little thing you are, they’d always joke around about how Patrick’s sister was hot, (literally average twelve year old when they see any female) and well Patrick, Patrick was pissed, so this is when the golden rule—he calls it— came in.

Patrick’s sister is off-limits.

Which eventually stopped being a big deal when he left for MRTA, since you’d only see him for holidays and breaks, and you didn’t really get to meet any of his friends.

Then Art comes into Patrick’s life; Bunkmates since they were twelve, both in their first year away from home.

For the first summer break, Patrick left to go to your family’s lake house with you and your parents, and Art went back home to visit his nana, he knew his parents would most likely be away working—as per usual.

But he actually finds out that his nana had already been sent to a retirement home 15 minutes out of his home town, so he visited every couple of days during that summer even though his nana kept telling him, “Artie, you don’t have to visit an antique like me, go be a kid, enjoy your summer” however he insisted in staying around her to keep company.

So when they get back, Patrick “loud mouth” Zweig rants to Art about his summer, and Art simply nods thinking about how he’d most likely stay in the academy next summer, not like he had much to go back to at home.

Fast forward a couple of months, it’s Christmas; Art is helping Patrick pack last minute when there’s a knock at the door, then they hear a feminine voice.

“Come on dickwad, mom and dad are waiting in the car”

Patrick groaned as he started to shove his things into his bag, then looking back at art as he folded some of Patrick’s shirts.

“Hey, Donaldson, mind getting the door? It’s my fuck ass sister” he said casually as he grabbed the shirts from Art.

“Sure” Art mumbled not thinking much, only trying to imagine a female Patrick behind the door, seeing as he’s never met you, so there he goes, he opens the door and finds—not a female Patrick— but the prettiest girl he’d seen just standings there in the most angelic way.

“Hey…?”

“Art, it’s uh— my name is Art” he’s stumbling over his own words in the stupidest way possible.

“What kind of name is Art? Are you like an Arthur or something?” He cringes internally but before he can answer Patrick pushes past him.

“It’s just Art, leave him alone, he’s my best friend, only I can make fun of him, find one yourself, kid” Patrick speaks as he walks out the door with his things then turns to Art, “going home for Christmas, Donny?”

Art despised that nickname, the tips of his ears went red as his whole face flushed, but he shook his head.

“My parents said they won’t be able to make for Christmas and I— I don’t want to worry my nana so…” he said shyly and a bit disappointed but, they were the same parents that had forgotten his birthday a year ago and days later brought a cake that said “happy 14th birthday” when he was turning 12.

“Awe…that sucks man, I’ll talk to my parents, you can tag along with us to our lake house next summer”

And that’s how the tradition all started, every summer, Art would spend it with Patrick’s parents, you and Patrick at the lake house, which gave him enough time to catch a little something his nana called a Lovebug, essentially, his was crushing hard.

But of course, there was the golden rule— totally off-limits.

And Art was…fine with it, it’s not like you’d ever like him back, he was probably just “Patrick’s quiet best friend” to you.

Little did he know…

Then fast forward a couple years later, coincidentally, you would also be going to Stanford without actually knowing Art had already been there for a year.

And Stanford was full of frat parties, Halloween costume parties and in general, any party within a 10 mile radius.

And you, pretty little freshman had been invited to a frat party by one of the juniors in your econ class, and I mean, you can’t be rude, right? You have to go.

So, you do.

You wind up in a frat house with a shit ton of people, some cigarette smoke and, a whole bunch of red disposable cups, so why not grab one, what’s the worst thing it could have in it, beer probably?

Wrong.

Something that to you tasted exactly what rubbing alcohol smelled like, so it goes straight from the cup to your mouth then back to the cup as you cringe letting out a single dry cough.

“You alright there?” A gentle voice popped up from behind you, familiar but you couldn’t quite tell, but as you turn there he is; Art fucking Donaldson. With a backwards red Stanford cap and a grey Stanford hoodie.

Oh.

“Oh— Art…hey” you chuckle softly still smelling the mysterious alcohol from your mouth.

“This isn’t quite your scene, huh?” He spoke as he took a sip from his cup with that goddamn side smirk of his.

“Yeah— no, I mean, I’ve been to parties, fun, fun parties. And this, this is so my scene” you rambled nervously, it was already embarrassing enough you, a freshman was at a frat party with a pretty floral skirt and a crochet sweater.

“Really? Oh…then have fun, fun girl” he laughed as he lifted his cup a bit towards you to then walk away.

Fuck it. You were gonna get wasted.

And so, that you did; Somehow ending up in just a soaked tank top, a soaked skirt, hair dripping water and, squeaky wet shoes as you stumbled out of the pool from the backyard.

“Hey, watch it—“ Art turned as he felt your body bump against his, “oh it’s you, fun girl.” He giggled as he saw you, clearly too drunk to even know what was going on, and he could’ve just laugh it off and get back to the party, but Art wasn’t like that, and specially not to you, you’re such a pretty little thing all wasted and soaked past midnight, plus, you were Patrick’s sister. He had to.

So he said his goodbyes and grabbed you as you both walked out of the frat to go back to campus.

“So tell me, miss Zweig, how does one, as drunk as you, not drown in a pool?” He said as he saw you hold onto his arm for dear life trying not to trip, which might have just dug up something he had buried years ago.

“Y’know, im fun, and this is so my people” you said looking up at him—just barely— as you let out a hiccup.

He blushed as he heard it, clearly it was your first time getting drunk drunk, adding on to the wet hair and your shivering body,

“Right, fun girl, my bad” he chuckled “come on you’re shivering, here” he pulled his hoodie off as he handed it to you, “can’t let you catch a cold, how else will you go to your next party, miss fun girl”

“Thank you, Artie.” You said as you grabbed the hoodie sliding it over your head feeling the warmth it carried from Arts body, accompanied by the faint smell of his cologne.

Meanwhile, Art was feeling like his spine had just been ripped out; Artie.

You hadn’t called him that since the summers at the lake house, where he had attempted and failed to forget his crush on you.

“Yeah— I uh…yeah” he blushed even harder as he fumbled his words not knowing how to react.

You just shut your eyes and breathed in the scent of his cologne to then open them up, there you were, doe eyed looking at him, in his hoodie, hair soaked as you unconsciously made it harder for him to be a good friend to Patrick, he felt horrible.

Not only did the disgusting thought of wanting to fuck you against his jeep popped into his head, this is Patrick’s sister he’s fantasizing about.

“Come on— I uh, I gotta get you back on campus” he cleared his throat as he looked away avoiding your stare.

“You’re no fun anymore, Artie…” a pout made itself present as you took a step closer, your hands landing on his shoulders, “come on, Donny…”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“Patrick would kill me, you know that.”

“I won’t tell”

He wasn’t proud of himself for turning back to look at you, but you were just so pretty, lucky he didn’t have a boner, if he hadn’t given you the hoodie to cover your very visible nipples against the tank top, he’d probably have you bent over his cars hood.

“I really— I can’t…” he mumbled, his face inches away from yours, noses brushing against each other.

“You sure?” You whispered as you stared down at his lips, “not just this once?”

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, well…there goes his willpower, he was in too deep already.

Next thing he knows, you’re riding him in the backseat of his car, all flushed, tits out, him whimpering as he dug his fingers into your hips holding on for dear life throwing his head back, and windows all fogged up.

Yeah, he was so screwed.

He will most definitely be breaking the golden rule for…well, let’s just say it’s not a one time thing.

Florence Pugh and Mike Faist on a press tour together FUCK

spam posting rn but I thought this was funny

thought!….art transferring his gum into your mouth with a lil kiss before going off to play

𖤐 about me: stella, 18, korean-american, she/her, wannabe writer, theatre kid art's controversially young girlfriend, patrick's babygirl, tashi's wife, rafe's princess music: the 1975, the beatles, oasis, blur, beabadoobee, and role model

i write for art, tashi, and patrick masterlist - requests are open!

recent: good luck, babe! - tashi x reader tags: faistizer art, faistizer patrick, faistizer tashi, faistizer talks, faistizer offtopic, faistizer recs

anons: none yet

me & you together song

i've been in love with her for ages and I can't seem to get it right i fell in love with her in stages my whole life - me & you together song, the 1975

pairing: stanford!art x friend!reader, slight patrick x tashi

in which: art’s been in love with you for ages, and he can’t seem to muster the courage to tell you.

warnings: patrick and tashi are dating in this, art being an absolute loser and dork, severe pining

note: i just really like writing friends to lovers okay???

“seriously man?”

patrick snap his fingers in front of art’s face. “i come back from tour, just to visit you and you can’t even look at me because you’re busy— what, busy starin’ at a chick?”

“she’s not just some chick—“ art snaps his attention back to his best friend.

“no, she’s the girl of your dreams—“ the other boy mocks in a dreamy tone. “you’ve been doing this since the tennis academy days. since you saw her on the fuckin’ court when we were twelve.”

“shutup- shutup-“

“no! i will not shut up, donaldson.” patrick rolls his eyes. “you’ve been doing this for forever, and we’re in college now. ask her out, it’s not hard to—“

“shut up— PATRICK.” art says loudly. he clears his throat and he turns his head to you approaching. his cheeks flushing up from the sight of you. “hey.”

“hey.” patrick snorts casually.

“hi.” you smile politely. “um, art. do you know when practice starts today? i lost my schedule.”

“um. yeah- it’s- uh— it’s at- at- two.”

“oh okay, thanks, art.” you smile and wave before turning away and joining your friends at their table.

“it’s— uh— uh— uh— at— at— t-t-two,“ patrick teases with a smirk. art slaps his chest with a scoff.

“whatever man.”

“let me be your wingman!”

“no.” art says stiffly.

“oh come on, why not?” patrick groans as if he’s in physical pain.

“the last time you offered to be my wingman, you told her—“ he looks around and lowers his voice, “—that i have an intense boner.” art hisses, his pale skin turning red at the memory.

“what? was i wrong? no!” patrick cackles then slowly stops as he catches his friend’s glare, “besides, she laughed! she thought it was a joke. girls love a funny guy-“

“she didn’t laugh because it was funny, patrick. she laughed because she was mortified.” art says stiffly.

“whatever you say man.” patrick chuckles to himself, wearing that stupid, condescending grin. “i’m just saying— if you don’t ask her out, you’ll be pining after her until you’re forty-fucking-five.”

art’s mouth shifts in a thin line, because for once, what patrick’s saying is true.

at practice, art rallies the ball back to his hitting partner. his grip’s loose, his footwork’s sloppy, but he’s barely paying attention to that because you’re right there.

you laugh at something one of your friends said, the way your face shifts, perfecting that smile. the way your ponytail blows in the gentle wind, the way—

“donaldson! come on, this is the third time!” his hitting partner yells as the missed ball slams the fence behind him with a thwack.

“fuck— fuck- yeah, i’m sorry.” art says quickly, he snaps back to attention and turns around to pick up the ball. but when he bends over to reach it, another hand is already picking it up for him.

he looks up and his cheeks redden again.

“here.” you smile gently, like an angel— no— no- a goddess, and hands the ball to him.

for a moment, art stares, his mouth agape, speechless. his eyes never leaving your eyes, he freezes in place.

you furrow your eyebrows together in mild confusion and you laugh slightly to break the awkward silence. “art?”

“oh— yeah— yeah, sorry- zoned out.” art says frantically, standing up and taking the ball. as your fingers brush— just for a second—his heart stutters. “th— thanks.”

as he turns to toss the ball back to his partner, the coach yells— “ok, five minute water break! good work.” his partner groans and throws his hands up in the air.

art stares longingly at you from a distance as you tip your bottle back. he wishes he was the bottle. fuck— what is wrong with him?

from the bleachers, patrick catches the look in his friends eyes, and scoffs. he whistles. when art looks, gestures lazily in your direction. he then mimes drinking from an invisible cup. ‘ask her out for drinks,’ he mouths, just for good measure.

art mouths back— ‘how?’

but patrick’s already distracted— his hand finds tashi’s waist as he whispers something in her ear. she scoffs showing him off as he kisses her cheek. some wingman, art thinks to himself with an eye roll.

for once, art musters l the courage to talk to you. he takes a few heavy steps, scrambling for the right words. ‘hi, i’ve been in love with you for the past seven years.’ too strong. ‘how are you?’ too vague.

he decides on a ‘hey. are you free tonight? do you want to go get drinks? i know a good spot.’

yet, as he reaches where you are and has you staring at him expecting him to say something— he squeaks out a “drinks?”

you blink, “drinks?”

“you— do you— you want— do you want drinks?”

you tilt your head with a half smile, “n-no?”

“i mean— fuck, uh.” he clears his throat, twice. “do you— do you want, do you want to go out with drinks with me? tonight? if you’re free- if you- have time.”

“as friends?” you smile slightly as you brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

fuck. fuck. abort mission. his brain screams at him to run, but his feet won’t move. okay, so you want to go as friends? sure— he can do that.

“well, duhhhhh—“ he says, way too loud. “um— yeah— as— um— the bestest friends. yes. from mark rebellato’s tennis academy. friends.”

everyone on the stanford tennis team is staring at him at this point. even patrick lets out an exaggerated sigh from the bleachers.

“…oooookay then, is seven good?” you ask gently

“yup. amazing. so good.” he grins— way too wide with his teeth clenched— and bolts.

he drops down next to tashi and patrick, exhaling like he’s just run a 100 miles. “i did it.” he lets out a breathless laugh, almost in disbelief. “i asked her out.”

patrick snorts. “you call that asking someone out?”

“i mean— technically, yeah?”

“did you actually— or-?” tashi raises her eyebrow.

“our big man did it, tash.” patrick laughs. “he’s going out for drinks with her. as the ‘bestest friends from mark rebellato’s tennis academy,’ of course.”

“shut up,“ art groans, holding his head in his hands.

“no- because, you weren’t even ‘bestest friends’— you were barely friends with her at the academy.” patrick points out. “you barely spoke to her, all you did was pine after her and jerk o—“

art’s cheeks flush up and covers patrick’s mouth, looking around frantically. “OKAY— okay, patrick. we get it.”

tashi sighs, patting her boyfriend’s arm. “just don’t be weird and scare her off.”

patrick grins, “like that’s possible.”

“patrick,” tashi gives him a look. patrick rolls his eyes, then turns to art, squeezing his cheeks.

“fine, good luck. just remember, you can’t fuck up more than you already have,” he pauses, “probably.”

for the past half hour, art’s been gripping on his drink like his life depends on it.

you’ve been going on and on about tennis practice, this girl who borrowed your lip gloss and lost it, and that time you fell on your face during a junior league.

but he’s completely distracted because at the moment, he doesn’t know whether he’s looking at you too much— or not enough. if his outfit says ‘causal friend hangout’ or ‘please love me and run off with me to a cabin where we can live happily for the rest of our lives.’

so he just laughs when you laugh. nod at the right times. says “yeah” when it seems appropriate.

and he prays that you don’t notice how he’s completely freaking out about this.

“art.”

he snaps out of it instantly.

“…mm yeah?” he mumbles like complete, fucking idiot.

“are you even listening to me?” you smirk, laughing slightly.

“of course, i am.” he tries to put on a winning smile but it comes out strained.

you raise your eyebrow, taking a slow sip from your glass. art, desperate to seem composed, mirrors you and drinks from his.

as you set your drink down, you casually mention, “y’know, i used to have the biggest crush on you?”

art chokes.

“what?” he coughs.

“yeah. back at the academy. i really, really liked you,” you laugh.

his heart practically leaps out of his chest and he swears his cheeks are probably heating up and shifting to some shade of pink.

but he plays it cool— or at least, he tries to.

"you said you used to? so- so, not anymore?" he stammers.

"i mean, i could like you, if you like me back," you tease. "but we're here as friends? right?"

he screams internally. fuck him. fuck his idiocy and not being able to ask the girl he loves on a real date. "...right." he looks down at the beer swirling in his cup.

you pause slightly, scanning the expression on his face. "do you like me?"

art raises his head, looking you in the eyes. this is his chance, whoever's up above has given him an opportunity. he cannot fuck this up.

"ye— i mean— pff, no."

fuck.

fuck.

patrick's voice rings in his head, 'just remember, you can’t fuck up more than you already have,' and look what he's done.

why, why would he say that? what is wrong with him? so many questions swarm his head and he has the urge to slap himself.

your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion and you look almost... disappointed? but you shrug anyways, "oh, okay then."

for a moment there is silence, before you clear your throat, "should we get another round of drinks?"

"yeah— sure." art murmurs, nodding slightly.

art donaldson is a fucking loser.

he repeats this in his head as he walks you back to your dorm. he opens his mouth several times to scream out about how much he loves you. about how he needs you. about how he wants to be with you for the rest of his life, despite it being only the first technical date.

but he can't.

he turns his head to look at you, because you're so pretty. and amazing. and perfect. he sighs and looks straight ahead.

he fucked it up.

patrick's right, he'll be pining after you until he's forty-five. actually, no, he'll be pining after you until he dies.

art's convinced he might explode because both of you haven't said a single word. he wants to rip his skin off or get on his knees and cling to you like a toddler.

after another two minutes of silence, he stops walking and bursts.

"i really like you."

he scans your face for a reaction but you stare at him.

"like— i really, really like you. i'm in love with you, i mean— who wouldn't be? you're so amazing— you're good at tennis, you're smart, you're nice, you're gorgeous— fuck- i should really shut up." he rambles, "i've just- i've just liked you since we were fucking twelve because you let me borrow your tennis ball after i hit mine over the fence. i thought you were really thoughtful— i mean, you still are—"

"art." you laugh, grabbing his shoulder.

"no- no- i know what you're going to say- like- we're friends. we're not even friends actually, i don't- i don't talk to you- at all—"

"art."

"-and i don't care if you don't like me back- i just wanted to get this out-"

"art!" you finally yell. you roll your eyes. "i know."

art stops talking.

"i know," you say again with a shrug. you brush a blonde hair out of his face.

art suddenly notices how close you are. "y-you know?"

you smirk, "i'm not an idiot. i have eyes."

is it just him or have you gotten closer? his cheeks are probably red again. like they always are around you.

"huh." his teeth worry into his lip in thought, he tries hard not to stare at your lips but ends up glancing at them.

you giggle softly, catching his glance, “i think you’re cute.”

“cute?” he squeaks.

“yeah, cute,” you grab his face a gently press your lips against his.

a few minutes later, art is running back to his dorm. his steps light and fast, he smiles like an idiot. his heart flutters so fast, he thinks it must be pounding out of his chest. he’s dizzy. he thinks he might faint.

but he stops, pulling his blackberry out of his pocket to type a message with shaky hands.

ART DONALDSON: you will not believe what just happened

he stares at the message with a grin, finger hovering over the send button, then presses it.

PATRICK ZWEIG: ?

PATRICK ZWEIG: dude

PATRICK ZWEIG: dude???

PATRICK ZWEIG: art??

PATRICK ZWEIG: hello?????

art laughs to himself still in disbelief.

ART DONALDSON: i dont even know what to say

ART DONALDSON: but it’s all happening

he leans back against the wall, laughing out loud again. he lets out a breath, grin never fading—

he’s definitely still an idiot, but maybe now— he’s a lucky one.

-

tags: @hyuneskkami for the divider

death with no dignity; patrick zweig

“ amethyst and flowers on the table

is it real or a fable ?

well, i suppose, a friend is a friend

and we all know how this will end ” - sufjan stevens

cw (18+) : mentions of depressive symptoms, masturbation, and heavy yearning.

wc : 1.9 k

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

It was an accident, it truly was, in every sense of the word. 

He had been driving home from Art’s house around 11 PM and had been playing some stupid song on the radio. He’d thrashed his head and slapped his palms against the leather steering wheel to the stupid beat, carefree and unassuming. It had been so dark, and he was distracted, and then suddenly the deer was in the center of the road. Big, black, shiny eyes and pointed ears and a deep brown coat. She was beautiful. For the split moment that he had before the impact, that’s all he could think about. 

He didn’t have enough time to swerve and avoid her because he’d been speeding, and everything afterwards happened in slow-motion. The skidding squeal of his tires against the asphalt. His heart lurching in his ribcage, almost enough to make him feel sick. The harsh jolt of the car and the brutal sound of metal hitting muscle, followed by the animal being sent hurtling a few feet forward and onto her side, accompanied by the painful sting of the seatbelt digging into his chest. When the car finally came to a stop, Patrick froze. His hands stuck to the wheel, shaking, and his eyes were peeled open wide as he stared through the windshield at the lifeless creature he’d just hit with his car. He was practically panting. He didn’t quite recall ever being so scared in his entire life, not even when he’d played his first professional match. Not even when he’d nearly drowned one summer years ago when he and Art were swimming in a lake upstate. 

He’d never killed anything before. Not like that. 

The aftermath was a blur. He almost called the cops to let them know that there was a large, dead animal in the road on so-and-so street, but he didn’t. To this day, he doesn’t really know why. Maybe it was all of the adrenaline. Maybe it was all of the guilt. Regardless, he’d mumbled a soft, “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” and then slowly pulled off and around it. He never told his parents, or anyone for that matter, that he had cried so hard on the rest of the drive home that he felt lightheaded by the time he was in the driveway. 

Mommy and Daddy Zweig offered–no, begged–to get him a new car the next evening (when they got back from Greece) because his hood and bumper were horribly dented, but Patrick had refused. He’d laughed off the incident in front of them, and then waited until they went to bed to slink into their massive garage and pick all of the little tufts of fur out of the vehicle’s grille.

He’d traced his fingertips along the indentations and the scratches in the paint and blinked away the wetness clouding his vision. Tried to mentally retrace his steps that night, too. What if he hadn’t been listening to that stupid song? What if he hadn’t left his best friend’s place so late? What if he’d been quicker? Smarter? Luckier? 

Could things be different? Could he have spared a life? 

Could he have spared the victim, and himself, the pain?

Patrick’s twenty-one now, and he does a lot of retracing his steps these days.

Tennis is his priority; he’s always on the court, or in a car or a bus that’s traveling to a court of some kind. Forehands, backhands, volleying, serving, smashes–it’s all he lives and breathes. And, of course, it’s easier now to focus on tennis when he no longer has friends. 

Art and him haven't talked in many months (has it really been years?), not since Tashi’s knee had gotten injured during that match at Stanford. 

Fuck that fucking match. And fuck them. 

He didn’t need them, he was doing just fine on his own. 

If his best friend of over a decade wanted to kick him to the curb like he was nothing more than a dog that had bitten him a smidge-too-hard to be loved, then whatever. If his grotesquely-talented girlfriend wanted to break up with him because he didn’t want to be treated like a lesser athlete nor sit in her shadow, then fine. He’d enjoy his tennis career and roll freely in the expendable income he was sure to continue collecting.

But that’s not really who Patrick is. 

And so he can’t help but lie awake at night, trying to pin-point where things went wrong–what he could have done to prevent this outcome–and tracing the indentations and scratches in his relationships that surely were only indicative of his faults. Compulsively picking at the tufts nestled in the wreckage. Eyeing the bloody brutalization, punishing himself by reliving the sting.

Sometimes he drags his fingertips over some of his old, banged-up rackets that he can't bear to get rid of, and he thinks about all of it. Tennis academy days with the shy, funny blonde kid that he became close with from day one. Learning and teaching and discussing with him all of the typical adolescent lessons that gave way to life outside of the bubble. Doubles matches–so many doubles matches. So many wins. First beers, first girlfriends, first cigarettes, first kisses. They shared everything with one another and they (almost neurotically) timed their experiences to happen around the same time so that they'd be able to talk to each other about them afterwards. As they got a bit older though, Patrick began to realize that he was feeling things for Art that he probably wasn’t supposed to tell him about. And he usually told Art everything.

That was his first mistake, he thinks, like when he hadn’t heeded the speed limit that night. Or, maybe, that was like playing the stupid song on the radio and going home late. It was the start of their untimely end. 

When he’s in one of his usual depressive spirals, the kind in which he can’t seem to find his appetite and he forgets to shower and he ignores his manager’s texts, he argues with himself about what exactly could be considered the “impact”. Was it when he had cheekily served like Art during that one casual training session, ball to the neck of the racket, confirming that he had slept with Tashi and thus beginning the festering of that awful jealousy in his friend? Or was it when he praised her in front of Art before her match in the singles tournament that fateful afternoon, igniting his friend's interest? Patrick remembers the look that glossed over Art’s eyes when he first caught sight of her; he had looked at her and suddenly Patrick felt like he’d been forgotten–like he’d melted into those bleachers and disappeared. He can’t really blame him, Tashi was talented and beautiful and ambitious and confident and mature–she was everything that Art steadfastly admired in a person. She was twice the person that Patrick had been back then.

Usually though, he comes to the painful conclusion that the impact was certainly the day of the Stanford match. More specifically, it was when Art had yelled at him for the first time in the entirety of their friendship. 

“Patrick, get the fuck out!” 

Those four words ring through his head on the worst of days.

He knew he’d fucked up by not pushing aside his pride and going to support Tashi after their fight, so he could pretty easily swallow down the discomfort that came with being yelled at by her. They yelled at each other pretty often when they got into their little spats, it was relatively normal. But god.. It was so much different when it was him. Patrick's muscles had locked up; he was shaking and breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon, able to see nothing but that pair of angry, familiar eyes. The vitriol that came spurting from the blonde’s mouth was like the worst toxin he’d ever known. It paralyzed him and began to rot his insides from that very moment on. And then all of the suffocating memories came flooding back as he turned and walked out of that campus health center. 

Giggling under blankets with a flashlight, reading comics until the sun started to come up. Practicing for hours on the courts at the academy, sometimes until they both got sunburns and heatstroke. Sleeping in the same bed on summer nights at Patrick’s house–tiredly watching the way Art’s chest rose and fell with each of his breaths and trying not to look at his lips. Holding each other when Art’s parents got divorced and he cried so hard that he got a nosebleed. Bandaging each other’s blisters. Wearing each other’s clothes. Having each other's back.

He doesn’t understand what he did to truly deserve being treated like that in the end by Art.

He’d been a good decent friend, hadn’t he? 

How could Art’s infatuation with her be enough to snuff out everything that they built together? It was supposed to be the two of them for the rest of their lives. Sure, they could each get married, pursue a career, have kids, but at the end of the day it was always meant to be them, wasn't it? Fire and Ice? Did he get that part wrong?

He habitually questions how much he really meant to him.

When Patrick does muster up the strength to drag himself to the shower, he generally stays in there for at least an hour. “Waste of water” be damned. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth run over his hair and his naked body. He presses his back to the cold shower wall and rubs his eyes until he sees white flashes dancing in the darkness. It’s not uncommon for his mind to wander back to you-know-who. In fact, that’s who’s usually on his mind whenever he’s not trying harder to forget. And it’s easy for Patrick to fixate on those blurry white flashes and suddenly see yellow curls, bright blue irises, deep smile lines, flushed cheeks. Breath smelling of that peppermint gum he always chewed. The sound of his nervous laughter and joyous cheers. Patrick would know him even if all of his senses were somehow dulled or taken from him. He would know Art by the feel of his soul breathing life into his own. He would know him, surely.

And maybe it’s an act of pure filth and desperation, or one of flesh-tearing grief, but many times Patrick winds up touching himself. Slow, steady, tender–the way he assumes Art touches Tashi. The way he had always wanted to touch Art, though he never even gathered the courage to try to hold his hand. He thumbs his weeping slit and keens as he feels the sadness and arousal roiling in his gut. He chokes on little moans that sound like sobs that sound like screams. He’s starved. How is it possible to miss someone when they’re everywhere? He thinks it’s funny that he’s forgotten what Art’s speaking voice sounds like but also refuses to watch any of his latest interviews on TV. He doesn’t want to see if there’s a ring on his finger, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about all of the ways Tashi gets to keep him as her own. He was mine, he unfairly thinks as he strokes himself under the scalding water, he was mine and I loved him and you lured him in and then he was gone.

The orgasm usually comes quick, spurred on by the near-lethal dose of petulant thought. He feels his thighs tremble and then his hand starts to lose its rhythm and then he’s crying out as he comes hard over his curled fingers. Sticky, clotted, putrid evidence of his lack of control. When he finally opens his eyes again, salt spills down his ruddy skin from wet lashes. He gets dizzy from the heat and the steam, he feels like he’s choking on all of it. He brings his dirtied hand under the showerhead and watches as his mess is rinsed away, down the drain in a gurgling spiral. It takes everything in him not to collapse.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he whispers, before he forces himself out of the bathroom and collapses in a wet heap over his bed. His skin sticks to the sheets and makes him feel like some sort of dirty, beastly thing that crawls out of swamps and swallows up all of the good it can touch. He figures that the feeling is not far off from the truth.

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

And that doe followed him for the rest of his life.

note : to anyone who's ever had a childhood crush on their best friend. to anyone struggling with the grief.

This was intentionally written to be a bit "all over the place"; I wanted to show how scattered Patrick's thoughts can be. Also I love, love, love Tashi, I just think Patrick maybe sometimes (early on, before they reconnected) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.

tags : @venusaurusrexx @tashism @grimsonandclover @diyasgarden @weirdfishesthoughts @gibsongirrl @newrochellechallenger2019 @jordiemeow @artstennisracket @cha11engers ♡