Take It Like A Champ!

Thinking about how tashi means good fortune in tibetan today. I wonder if that was intentional, or just a fun little horribly untrue coincidence

PUT ME IN COACH

GIMME

this sucks but i haven't written in a while so. here you go

Everyone was horrified by your lack of tears. You could see it on their faces. You were supposed to keel over with your knees pressing into your stomach and wail, pounding on the floor like the vibrations would shake through his body and start up his heart again. If that was going to work, he would’ve come back days ago. The night you got the call, you wished you’d been more shocked. You hung up the phone politely, always cordial with his mother despite everything, and screamed. Screamed like the release was enough. Enough to feel better? Enough to wake him up? Who knows. Certainly not you. Now, you don’t cry. You hardly move. Where was there to go when pinned down by a loss this big? Not to sleep. Not to the awakened world that reality brings, either. Not to the middle ground. It’d be easier to snap your fingers and just phase out of existence. You wonder how it’d feel to be sucked into a black hole. You wouldn’t necessarily mind if it hurt.

You didn’t want to see the body. The worst thing you possibly could do for yourself would be to see the body. When you first heard, you tried to imagine what he’d look like, all paper white and green like the veins beneath his wrists. You had a hard time picturing it, initially, because how could you? He had been livelier than people gave him credit for. He lit up during movie nights, grinned like the sun had shone down just for him when he got the curve of your nose in a drawing just right. He’d been so alive. Soon it got easier. You could wipe off the cheap foundation holding him together just enough to look lifelike while lifeless and see if your imagination was correct, but it’d do you no good. It still hurt to see him all colorful, rosy like the blood beneath his skin still flowed. He looked the same. It feels like he’d been dead this whole time. You fear he had been.

The dirt in the ground beneath you had hardened with the cold air, bunching in on itself to create an uncomfortable, constant press against your spine. You tossed, turned, and the earth didn’t move. Nothing had ever bent at your will, really. You weren’t one of the lucky ones. You learned about this once, how cold slows down particle movement, hardens things, molds them into one set form. The smell of misty, post-rain air was still dancing around, the remnants now shining, silvery coatings over the deep green blades of grass which tickled the skin of your cheek. 

If you reached out your hand just enough, it would touch his, and it would still feel like lighting on fire from the inside out. The cigarette between his lips, which bobbed when he swallowed around nothing, sizzled a bit on the inhale, glowing redder with each breath in, and simmering down when the connection was lost. You think you understand how it feels. You could’ve kissed him if you wanted to, but you’d never liked the way that cigarette smoke lingers on your tongue, wraps around your hair like ivy and burrows itself between the fibers of your clothes. So you just watched as he breathed life into it, cherry glowing brighter, brighter still, a flaming, striking orange, then reducing down to a deeper red. 

If it weren’t so cold, maybe the stars would;ve seem less hazy. The world always seems muddled this time of year, all soft lines and blending colors, like each texture was bleeding into the other. Then again, maybe it was just your eyes. But still, they glowed for you, for him, maybe for the pair you made up. 

“Do you think that you’ll ever be okay knowing this is it?”

He had a way of speaking that makes everything sound significant, like a weight off his chest comes with each syllable that funneled up from his throat. It’s one of those things you love about him, one of many. Sure, he’d had his flaws, like all people do, but when he made something as simple as a greeting sound like a poem, it’s almost indescribable, the sensation of hearing him say that he loves you. 

“I think that’s fine with me. It’s not like things are stuck here. I can still move around a little bit. You know, make friends, get a job. Things that aren’t concrete.” 

He hums, tilting his head up as if he’s going to nod, but he never drops it back down. He just keeps staring up, up and away. Almost like something is looking back at him. You hope whatever God is holding his gaze is one of the pleasant ones, all white, flowing dresses and feathered wings. 

“Do you think you’ll be ok with it?”

He shrugged, took a breath. 

“It’ll have to be enough.”

You itch with disgust at the memory. The stupidity you’d always had. It’d never be enough. Maybe ‘it’ wasn’t anything you could ever understand. He’d been the smarter one. You step outside of the funeral parlor, hands shaking as they dig through your purse, pulling out a small box of cigarettes you haven’t yet learned to stop coughing around. You hope the smoke which fills your lungs doesn’t leave, settling into a hard soot against you. You settle it between your lips, the lighter setting it aglow. You breathe in, choke at the harshness, and suck in harder. It better stick into each and every hair. It better turn your teeth yellow with damage. It’s like kissing him all over again.

we finally got full josh espresso cover happy mothers day ig

loosely (heavily) inspired by talia's edgy sixth grade poetry. hope you enjoy. comments and critiques welcome as always.

When he was about six or seven, he picked up a racket for the first time. Something to get his small body’s endless amounts of energy out. A way for his parents to spend even less time with him. He remembers poking the tip of his pinky finger through the netting, curling his small fingers around the handle, and suddenly he felt whole. He spent the rest of that day bouncing around the otherwise neglected court in his backyard, playing against the gate. He fell, scraped his knees, and grinned down at the peeling skin, the dotting red of blood rising to the surface. A battle scar of sorts. When he came back inside, the sky had grown dark. His parents had forgotten to make him dinner. He couldn’t have cared less. He slept it with it next to him that night, body thrumming with excitement at repeating the same routine when the sun rose. Patrick Zweig was a child once, full of potential for being something.

Tennis stuck around just like the circumstances that bred his attachment to it, a huge house without the love of a home, a neglectful set of parents that felt love was fulfilling obligations. He struggled to understand how he came from them, someone so vivacious, so full of passion for the very act of living, them having died the second they met one another, and refusing to let go and live again. He felt things too deeply to let himself be sad. Sad didn’t exist for him. Sad was too little. He felt everything in extremes, including a deep-rooted melancholy that only tennis could distract him from. His parents had hired a coach, spent the money on a ball machine. He stands tall at his side of the net, moving swiftly, brash as his voice, uproariously as his laughter. Eyes laser focused at all times on the ball, the machine. He couldn’t wait for the day that there would be another person to focus on. He wouldn’t stop some days until he felt numb, certain that his legs would scream from soreness the next day. Until he forgot that he knew how to feel at all. Patrick Zweig was a soldier, racket wielded like a shield at times, a sword in others, defending himself from the knowledge that this was all he had.

He didn’t miss his parents the way other kids did when he got shipped out to Florida. He didn’t necessarily miss his house, either, outside of the convenience of its large size. He remembers his bunkmate, Art, who he hadn’t learned to care for like it was his job yet, crying on the first night there. He wanted to help, really, but what was there to say? It was late, later than two young boys should be up, and he found his bare feet traveling across old, scratchy carpet and into Art’s bed. There was no acknowledgement between the two of them when he wrapped his arms around Art’s shaking body, nor when Art turned around to hold him right back. It didn’t feel uncomfortable for any longer than a second, like the needlepoint pinch of a shot before all you feel is the application of a bandage. Art fell asleep, eventually, and he watched for a while, as soft breaths left his parted lips, the heat noticeable against his chest. His leg had gone numb about 30 minutes ago, but he wouldn’t move until Art did. Patrick Zweig was a blanket, soft, warm and looking to shelter. 

Tennis and Art were second nature, just the way his vices were. He was prone to a night of drinking, sneaking through the dorm halls to find some of the older students’ stashes of cheap beer, smoking cigarettes because he saw it in the movies and was horrified when he began feeling his hands shake when there wasn’t smoke in his lungs, and then there were the girls. Girls who wore too short skirts and had long, pretty legs for him to hold onto, girls who smiled with teeth and had glinting canines that would leave marks in his neck if given the chance, girls who had voices like a siren, and just a call of his name set his mind racing. He thought dating was just liking someone’s presence for a long time. Simply enjoying their proximity, their being, their taste. He wishes he’d learned that wasn’t true before Tashi. No one had ever really told him otherwise. It’s not like his parents were a great example to base his future romantic endeavors on. She handled him with care, in her own way. Let him ease his way into sharing himself with someone that wasn’t Art. She wasn’t gentle, necessarily, but careful. She held his face when they kissed, he remembers. Like he couldn’t keep it up himself. Like he was fragile. It killed him when she let go of him, some argument that never needed to happen had they both not been scared to let things be more than physical intimacy. Patrick wanted it, needed it, craved it like it was air and he’d had his head held underwater. He regretted every bit of harshness that he’d shown, even if he did mean some of it. She was allowed to be mean to him, it was still her attention. He had no right to act otherwise, he'd done nothing to deserve someone like Tashi's kindness. He left, and wanted her to realize that she was losing something beautiful, or at least, something with the potential to be. He doesn’t know what idea hurts worse: the idea she never realized, or that she did, and still let him go. Patrick Zweig was glass, soft and delicate until it shatters, and slices through you like you’re nothing more than paper. 

He imagines the sound that Tashi’s knee might have made sometimes, when he’s got nothing else to distract himself with. He wants to know what the sound of an angel losing its wings, crashing down to human mediocrity, sounds like. He saw it, though, the look on her face. So scared of feeling powerless she wouldn’t even cry with her world crumbling around her. She wasn’t strong, she wasn’t brave, she was just really, really stubborn. Maybe that’s why she’d started screaming when she saw him. Because he could read her. Because if she yelled loud enough, she’d be back at the Open, crying out victory. If her voice was the loudest, engulfing everyone else’s, she’d still won some kind of game. Art, though, didn’t need to do what he’d done. Art hurt him just to stand at Tashi’s side. He’d still forgive him, if he was given the chance. In fact, he did try. His messages never went through. Tashi picked up a call once, one placed in a lonely, slightly drunk stupor. They’d laughed back and forth, banter, insults that he considered playful. His were, anyway. He thought they were making it back to normalcy, until Tashi’s clear, crisp voice said “Go to hell, Patrick” and the only sound left behind was the dull beeping of an ended phone call. He stopped trying after that. Patrick Zweig was a dog, whimpering, waiting by the door for his masters to come home and kick him again. 

He stopped winning soon after that. He had no one to win for, not even himself. He’d left himself in the doorway of that little med area beneath the Stanford tennis courts. He wonders what they did with him. Was he swept away by a janitor with the other garbage? Stepped on beneath Art’s shoe? Silently, he hoped the failure, the constant code violations, would grab their attention for just a moment. It’s better that they think him pathetic than not think about him at all. He’s somewhat grateful for having hit rock bottom, because he no longer recognized himself without some kind of struggle. His parents had stopped caring years prior, and then again, they probably never cared at all. Tennis no longer a refuge, but an obligation, a way to make just enough money to buy himself some food, the gas to fuel his car. The car that’s become his home when no one is there to help him otherwise. Sex has become the refuge. Sex he doesn’t even want to be having anymore. He hardly feels anything but cotton sheets beneath his body, and that spurs him to keep going. Keep going and sleep. He usually leaves, regardless of if he wants to. Sometimes it’s nothing, leaving without notice. But there are times where he’d do anything to be a better man, someone these women deserve. He remembers a girl from White Plains that he would’ve let himself try something with, had he not been so scared. It made the nights leading up to his inevitable departure, wrapped up in her sheets, all the more painful. He watched her face contort and tried to memorize it, though it faded with time, like all things do. He liked knowing he’d done something for her, even if it was killing him inside. At least he’s still capable of doing something good. Patrick Zweig was a cigarette, burning from the inside out just to give someone else their fix, and he loved the ache. He was addicted to it. 

When he met you, he was prepared to make the most of his future loss. He would do anything to make his temporary stay something worth it. He would be good for you, even if he’d be nothing but destructive if he stayed. He didn’t know how to be anything other than self-sabotaging, really. He recognized the look in your eyes as one he’d had years before, youthfulness, passion, a need to make something of yourself, a hope to do that with someone accompanying you. Maybe he liked that he could treat you will, living vicariously through you, giving a version of himself the love he likes to think he deserved, but knows he didn’t. But, little by little, you chipped away at the layers of jadedness buried beneath his skin. He remembers one night, in your bed, you’d held his face for hours, silent, just looking at him, rubbing your thumbs over the stubble on his cheeks. He didn’t touch you in return. He was still scared that anything he laid a hand on would be ruined by him, would ruin him right back. Your hands didn’t come away bloodied, your eyes never turned cold, and when you did speak, it was never above a whisper. When you’d fallen asleep that night, bathed in moonlight, he knew. There was no avoiding the inevitability of being human. He’d forgotten that he still was one. But you’d cultivated him like a seed, feeding him tenderness he’d never been afforded until all he could find it in himself to do was give it back. He blossomed back into something under your hands. A man who laughs freely and touches without shame. The lover he’d always hoped to be, somewhere down the line. Patrick Zweig is just a man, and he’s happy to be something so simultaneously simple and complex. He’s happy to just be.

Please Help Me Feed My Children in Gaza – We Are Starving

Dear kind soul,

I never thought I would have to write a message like this. I am a father of five children, living in Gaza — and we are starving.

We have no food. No clean water. No safety. My children cry from hunger every day, and as their father, my heart breaks because I cannot feed them. I have injuries from Israeli airstrikes, and my health is getting worse, but the worst pain I feel is watching my children suffer without being able to help them.

This is not a famine. This is forced starvation. We are being deprived of food and aid. We are dying slowly, silently.

Please, I am begging you — if you can donate anything, even the smallest amount, it can mean a meal for my children. If you cannot donate, please share my plea with others. Your voice could reach someone who can help.

Your compassion can save lives. Your help could mean that tonight, my children go to bed with something in their stomachs.

Please don’t ignore this.

Please Donate now:👇

🔗 Donation Link

Please Reblog My Post :👇

📌 Post Link

please please please if you are able to, consider donating. the situation in gaza is dire, and it’s up to us to help as best we can <3

WIFE JUST DROPPED SOME BOTSSSSS

MISC BOT DUMP ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

15/04/25

featuring characters from: challengers, west side story, panic, house of the dragon & marvel

prefacing this with a big fat thank u for 700 followers <3 not proofread in the slightest and very badly tagged but that's okay!! got drafts for fics for a lot of these so. Hmm eventually

still have other reqs to get through but saving those for after anniversary :) rafe lovers u r not forgotten.

gender neutral unless specified otherwise. have fun

enjoy ! <3

CHALLENGERS

SERVE(ING PAPERS)

patrick zweig x user

Your marriage was doomed from the start. Everyone pretended otherwise, and it took you a decade to come to that conclusion, but hey. Frontal lobe development, and all that. The point is you're sick and tired of the fighting and infidelity on both sides. Time to get a divorce.

ANOTHER ONE?

art donaldson x user (m4f)

Art's happy with his life, don't get him wrong. He loves likes his career, adores his wife, and Lily is the absolute light of his life. But it's because he loves your little family so much that he's been thinking about expanding it... how about another one?

WEST SIDE STORY

PLEASE DON'T GO

riff lorton x user

Fancy fuckin' school you managed to get yourself accepted into. All was well and dandy before you dropped the news that it meant you'd have to move away and leave him behind. So instead of telling you he'll miss you, he takes the childish route. What happened to loyalty, huh?

NOT ON MY WATCH

riff lorton x user (m4f)

Pretty girl like you is too good to be seen hanging around with the likes of him. You have a future ahead of you—you don't need to be wasting time with some boy you took pity on as a kid for having a crackhead momma. Cutting you out of his life is a necessity, he tells himself... until he spots some member of the Sharks hitting on you a few months later. Absolutely-fucking-not.

LONG TIME NO SEE

balkan x user

It's been a hell of a long time since you've seen him. Keeping a roof over your head is tough, and Balkan is in too deep with the Jets to worry about maintaining friendships. But when he gets into a fight on the wrong side of town, you're the person he turns to. Maybe he just misses you.

PANIC

DADDY'S LIL ANGEL

dodge mason x user (m4f)

Dodge willingly attending church? Unheard of! But when he realises how pretty the preacher's daughter is, he finds himself attending worship. (Not for God, of course. For you.) He's on his best behaviour around you, he swears, but it's getting increasingly hard not to test how hellbent you are on saving yourself for marriage.

A SHOULDER TO CRY ON

dodge mason x user

If you asked his sister, she'd tell you Dodge has the emotional intelligence of a rock. Definitely not the most ideal person to find you crying in the kitchen after a rough shift at Dot's, but you mean a lot to him. Maybe he can lend you a shoulder to cry on... just don't stain his shirt, please.

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON

HEAVY IS THE HEAD

rhaenyra targaryen x user (wlw)

Lucerys is dead, Daemon has disappeared with Caraxes, and Rhaenyra's council is driving her up the wall with their arguing. But amidst all that chaos, she's able to find solace in the company of her lady's maid: you.

THE NEW QUEEN

alicent hightower x user

When Alicent told you that she had some news to share, you did not expect this. Perhaps that some knight asked for her favour, or that she had a new prayer book to share... not that she was marrying your father. Seven Hells, what has she gotten herself into?

FRIEND OR FOE?

jacaerys velaryon x user (m4f)

In theory, Jacaerys should be avoiding you at all costs. Your father is a supporter of the Hightowers, openly expressing his favour for Aegon on the throne. And yet despite it all, he finds himself seeking out your company more often than not—you aren't like the rest of them, he's sure of it.

MARVEL

PETALS AND PENITENCE

peter parker (tasm) x user

Surprise! Your best friend is Spider-man! And you are not happy about the fact he's kept this very life-altering secret from you, his closest companion. When you decide to ignore him after his accidental reveal, he realises he has to take matters into his own hands—a grand gesture, maybe. It's a pity the flowers got so wrecked in his bag, though.

LAST ONES STANDING

natasha romanoff x user

In the aftermath of the Blip, everything changed. But, five years after the initial disappearance of half the world's population, things are returning to some form of normalcy. Or, at the very least, you're still as infuriatingly optimistic as Natasha remembers.

OH CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN

steve rogers x user

When you enlisted as a medic during the Second World War, Steve was proud of you. He couldn't serve his country, but you could. That was, of course, until Dr. Abraham Erskine took a chance on a poor kid from Brooklyn. Now you're both changing lives for the better, and he's never been more happy to see an old friend.

Mmm life so beautiful

line cook!art donaldson headcanons ‎𐂐◯𓇋

line cook!art who lights his cigarette with the flames of the cooker before going out for his break and you think it's the hottest thing you've ever seen

line cook!art who always makes extra fries for you whenever it's on an order, sometimes you let him playfully feed you one

line cook!art who fucks you slow and tender, who loves nothing more than watching you slowly come undone on his cock

line cook!art who steals alcohol from the kitchen and the two of you share the bottle after a long shift

line cook!art who makes you a mean grilled cheese for breakfast when you wake up tangled in his sheets

line cook!art who deftly ties your hair up before you give him a blowjob, cracking jokes about 'health and safety'

line cook!art who after you sleep together, he always moves your tickets to the front of the line

line cook!art who has got a sleeper build and you only notice his arms when he's grabbing stuff from the back or leaning on the doorframe

line cook!art who doesn't eat anything on shift because he's 'only hungry for your pussy'

tags: @ellaynaonsaturn @blastzachilles

Can't Be That Bad

aka patrick gets a taste of his own medicine

an: based on a convo with @artstennisracket we had a while back. this is kinda short and silly but i felt like getting something small out while i try and source my energy into another bigger thing ill write tomorrow or sunday.

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You lay on your side, curling in on yourself tighter, tighter, tighter still till there was no closer you could get to your own insides without popping. Knees to chest, chin to knees, arms wrapped around your bare legs like the ribbon atop a gift, holding things in place until the long-awaited relief of getting the product you want. The ache was dull, deep beneath your skin, festering like a wound, and it was sharp at the same time. Sharp, thudding, pulsating, echoing. Reverberating off the walls of your abdomen until it hits each piece of flesh within you, a muscular soreness that spreads where it shouldn’t. Even the expansion of your lungs with much needed oxygen seemed to hurt, the sharp feeling widening, pulling, growing taller with your chest, then shorter with exhale. It made your voice come out funny, shaky, like a sickly child. Patrick looked down at you from his place standing, which he so aggravatingly gets the continuous capacity to do, at the dresser, naked from the waist down. Why he would ever dress himself shirt first is beyond you, but if he ever changed his routine, you’d think the world was freezing over. The words come out muffled behind the cotton of the white tee he’s pulling over his head, but they’re there all the same.

“Seriously, babe. It can’t be that bad.”

And your body which once felt like it was heated by an internal coal furnace has suddenly frozen over. You must be glaring, not even with intention, because he briefly raises his hands to his shoulders as if to call for mercy. That smug little boy of an adult man can’t even bother to verbally apologize, but then again, you can’t verbally respond. You’re still heaving for air like you’d run a marathon. 

“Like, I’m sure it sucks, yeah, but… can’t you just, like, tough it out? Trust me, I’ve been hit in the stomach with a tennis ball, like, more times than I can count, so I think we’re both even, anyway.”

He’s putting on his pants now, boxers having been slipped on somewhere distant, hazy and blurred through your simmering anger. If looks could kill, the sheepish smile he sends you while buttoning his jeans up tells you that he’d have died a painful death about a minute ago. He makes up for it, momentarily, by striding to your side of the bed, leaning over to press a kiss to your damp hairline, your eyes sliding shut like he’d connected his lips to yours. It’s salty and gross. You know it’s gross, you know he thinks it’s gross, but he doesn’t mention it. 

“Left you some meds on the nightstand, kay? I’ll be back later.”

It’s a little ‘I love you’ without the heavy weight of actually saying it. He’s got a little stubble on his cheeks, he last shaved three days ago. You know this because he does. It’s one of very few things that Patrick is consistent about. Call it vain, but he likes to keep his appearances up as best he can. If the world is going to see him panting and sweaty most of the time, he better have a clean face doing it, even if flushed red from exhaustion. He left the room before you had the chance to meet his gaze without any annoyance, and you sigh, slowly straighten out each bend and curve of your bed until you’re on your back. He’s an idiot. It is that bad, and no tennis ball to the gut, eye, or crotch is ever going to change the fact that your entire body is beating like each cell was a little heart all its own. You’d seen so much red that the room now looks like it’s made up of mottled shades of gray. He’s an idiot. But, then again, he doesn’t have to be.

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“Jesus fucking Christ!”

He hisses through his teeth, eyes screwed shut like he’s bracing himself for impact, more accurately, like he’d already been hit. Badly. He’s certainly behaving as if that were the case. The dial in your hand reads an embarrassingly small number: 5. A 5 out of the possible 10 levels, and he’s practically writhing around against the plush cushions of your couch. You almost feel bad about it, almost, considering you’re only standing over him, watching with sinister glee, because of those painkillers he so kindly supplied. However, your friend had lent you the actual cramp simulator, and only one of those things is actively teaching Patrick he’s a dumbass. You’ll have to Venmo your friend something letter, just for an accurate measurement of gratitude.

“Aw, come on, P. Man up!”

He’s gripping his stomach like he wants to pull it off and suddenly things are less fun, your thumb twitching over the dial, until he looks back up at you and tries to steel himself. Emphasis on ‘tries’, because all he really does is grimace. You turn the dial to 8. 

“Fucking- Just turn it off, please!”

“Why? Can’t be that bad.”

He raises a hand to give you quite possibly the most pathetic middle finger you’ve ever seen, all wobbly and brief, like one of an elementary schooler believing themselves to be rebellious. His entire body is twitching, like it no longer knows what to do with itself from the sheer amount of sensory input. The overflow of pain signals. A civil war in his body, and one that you’re controlling. He looks like he might cry if he’d let himself do so without believing it to be embarrassing, which he won’t. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to, though. You slide the dial back to 0. 

“ ‘M sorry.”

You grin, kneeling between his bent legs to pull the adhesive pads from his stomach, feigning ignorance. 

“What was that?”

“I said I’m sorry, you evil-”

He cuts himself off, shakes his head. Meh. Not worth it. If that’s what he felt like upon waking up, he’d be evil, too. You’re well within your right. You place a kiss to his knee, which bounces in place. Still on high alert, even when there’s nothing to be scared of anymore. Besides pissing you off, maybe. You left him water and Advil on the coffee table beforehand, just in case. A small ‘I love you’ without verbally saying it. ‘I love you, even if you’re so, so painfully dumb.’ Patrick Zweig was an idiot. It can be that bad. He knows this because you do.

Take Me To Church

an: thanks mel for the idea @artstennisracket and @blastzachilles for the random read. also thanks to my irl maddie for catholic imagery recs you're a real one for that. not proof read, or spell checked, written in a daze in the span of a couple hours so forgive quality. also tumblr hates when i try and include a photo and the one i wanted didn't work so enjoy this random blurry one.

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For as long as he’d been able to walk, he’d made the short trek to church each Sunday. When he was particularly small, he’d hold Nana’s hand when crossing the street to make it to the large, pointy-roofed building safely. He sat on her knee, fingers gripping the backs of the pew in front of him, and nodded his tiny head in rhythm with the sermons he heard. He refused to go to the children’s service, no matter how the youth pastor tried to goad him into coming. It was too juvenile for him, he thought, even if he hadn’t even graduated from kindergarten yet. He needed to know everything he could. He wanted to know why he was here, what God’s intention was with all this. With each ‘amen’, his little fingers would wrap around the small, golden cross resting daintily on his sternum, and he’d smile as if he understood it all. On his walks back to his house, there was always a bit of extra energy in his body, and he saw each sway of a blade of grass, each breath of the wind, as the movement of God’s vessel. Where his place was in it, he hadn’t yet figured out. But if he was here, he could only have been planned to be, and he would carry out his purpose dutifully. 

He was quite upset to find out the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy had no services on campus, and the bus full of his future peers all looked at him quite strangely when they saw him mumble a prayer of each sip of water and opened granola bar. He was even more peeved to find that the boy he was bunking with, his age and an inch or so taller, was wearing a Star of David and a smirk that pulled to the right side of his face. It wasn’t that he felt it was wrong, per se, to not devote oneself to God the way he did, he just couldn’t quite make sense of it. He felt for God the way he felt for tennis, that it was something too beautiful, too invigorating, to let slip past him without indulging in the light it shone upon him. Patrick, as he’d come to find out, watched from his bed, lounging on his side, as he prayed that night, propping his cross against the wall as he couldn’t find a nail to hang it on. Patrick could practically see the halo over Art’s head of cherubic, golden curls, but maybe it was just the old, orange hue of a lightbulb about to die off. 

“What are you doing down there?” 

Art bit back a sigh, though he felt a sense of excitement stir in him as he shifted slightly left on his knees, patting the spot once taken by him. It was an invitation most teenage boys wouldn’t take, stuck in their need to feel more adult than they truly were, driven to defiance. But, after a moment’s consideration, he felt Patrick’s presence beside him, awkwardly chuckling into the oversized neckline of a hoodie.

“Do we just start talkin’ to ‘em?”

And here it was, it seemed. Art’s purpose at this moment. After all, was it not his duty to spread the gospel? If he could watch the symbol on the end of that thin, expensive-looking chain around his new roommate’s change, then maybe, just maybe, he’d be looked down on with favor. He could practically feel the lights shining down on him at this very moment. He took the boy’s hands in his own, clasping them into a ball, and began his prayer all over again. Patrick looked Art over with something akin to wonder, watching his closed eyes and moving lips, his bare knees oh so close to his own. He couldn’t help but feel that it was all so strange, and he tried his hardest to stifle his nervous laughter, but he couldn’t really be bothered to care when Art finally finished, looking up through pale lashes and frustrated, furrowed brows. 

That night, long after rising from off the floor, finding the small, circular indentations of carpeting in his knees, he stared at the ceiling without a goal in mind. His palms felt tingly, almost dry, and no amount of wiping them down the length of his shorts did little to rid himself of the feeling. His hands felt like Patrick’s, rough and dry and tingly. Calloused in places. How had that happened? Developing into Patrick as quickly as he’d met him. And, most importantly, why did that thought make his stomach stir with something akin to glee? Why did he like Patrick’s skin being so different from his own? Why did he want to reach out and grab at it? It was all so odd. It was unlike him. He flipped onto his side, now facing Patrick’s half of the room, and observed with all his might the image of him sleeping. His lashes weighed gently on his cheeks, lips almost pouting, and his chest rose and fell softly, steadily, slowly. It was almost beautiful. With each lift of his chest, the hem of his shirt rose just above the waistline of his shorts, and Art found himself focusing on that slim line of pale skin each time it revealed itself. He felt that stir again, deep within his gut. He frowned, turned over again, staring at the bare, brick wall.

Art and Patrick had found a push and pull, and the prayers became a semi-regular occurrence, as did practicing with one another, eating at the dining hall in ‘their’ corner, splaying themselves across the floor with cigarettes that Art had so reluctantly tried, and now become hooked on. They’d become friends in that odd, disconnected way only teenage boys could. And God, did Art love it. He liked feeling known in the way that only Patrick seemed to know him, reading him with just a sideways glance. They knew just about everything there was to know about each other, which is why tonight was so strange. Art’s eyes shot open, alerted by a muffled sound from across the room, almost pained in nature and he immediately sat up to find… oh.

“What are you doing?”

Patrick stopped dead in his movements, half-way through something Art definitely wasn’t meant to see. Patrick looked sticky with perspiration, chest heaving, bottom half of his body veiled by a duvet. 

“I’m practicing my backhand. Obviously, I’m jerking off. What does it look like I’m doing?”

He didn’t seem particularly ashamed, because Patrick never did, but Art was catching on. And it was wrong, so, so wrong, but he couldn’t help it. Curiosity was only natural, and so were needs. If it was friendly, it couldn’t count, could it? And Patrick was a good friend, always generous with his things, his knowledge, and he offered to teach him. Art considered it heavily, torn between duty and desire, and found himself disgusted with the way that his need seemed to outweigh all else. The Lord is his shepherd, he shall not want. He was to follow orders with his head bowed, worship unquestioningly at the altar. Yet, Patrick seemed to be herding him at that moment. All he did was want. And so, he learned. He murmured the name of some girl, Kat Zimmerman, because Patrick did. He didn’t quite care to imagine her, though, as suggested. He watched Patrick’s face scrunch, brows knit and lips curl, and felt something snap. He looked down at his hands, his lap, and scowled. Patrick simply laughed, like all this was so normal, so perfectly alright. Art gathered up an old t-shirt from the floor, wiping himself as clean as he could manage, but he still felt dirty. His lip wobbled the whole night through.

At fourteen, Art found himself nervously picking at the dead skin of his bottom lip, nursing a red cup of JUST the juice part of the punch, watching Patrick dance with some girl in ways that for sure weren’t considered appropriate. Too much touching, too little space. He wanted to grab Patrick by the shoulder and scold him. After all, there was no way that the God he’d tried so hard to get Patrick to believe in would approve. He was just being a good, caring friend and saving him from some kind of divine punishment. It had nothing to do with the nausea in his gut, or the clenching of his fingers. He felt something wet hit his shoe, and when he looked down he saw the white fabric had been stained red with his drink, the cup forced out of shape by his own hand. So, he did what he thought, instinctually, would be best. He forced a smile and found a girl to occupy himself with. A nice one, whom he recognized from… something. He’d never really bothered to care about anyone at school but Patrick. She spoke too fast, words tripping over each other on their way out, shuffling between her teeth. He didn’t listen to most of it, eyes inevitably following their way back to Patrick. He wonders if Patrick had ever been a dancer. He moved quite gracefully, in his own way. 

He wasn’t quite sure why, what cue he’d given her, but she’d grabbed him by the wrist and led him back to her dorm, biting at her bottom lip as he sat across from her. He sat back on his heels, lifting off of them only when she began descending towards him, and their lips met. He expected to feel more. Some kind of thumping in his chest, fluttering in his stomach, something like what he felt that night with Patrick. But still, he felt nothing. And based on the way she was sighing, grasping at his shirt to draw him further in, he was alone in that sentiment. So, he imagined. Patrick said things like this were always better if you imagined someone, hadn’t he? Think of long, skinny legs in tennis skirts, think of flowing hair and batting lashes, think of hands you’d want to touch. And all that came up was Patrick. Patrick with his stupid smirk and pointed canines, Patrick who had made things easy, Patrick who had made things so much harder. Suddenly, her lips felt soft, warm, and insistent. He pushed her away with flat palms to her shoulders, gathering himself and rushing out the door, mumbling an apology she certainly wouldn’t make out. It was wrong. He ran his fingers over the cross on his chest, and only then did he notice it was really just a piece of metal. Still, he begged for its forgiveness.

Now, he was eighteen, eighteen and relegating himself to unsatisfactory, rarely occurring kisses with girls. Girls who always seemed to want more than what he could give them. Something serious, in some cases. Something with lingering hands on waists and bruises sucked above pulse points. Something that would make his parents shake their heads in disapproval. Eighteen and spending one of many summers at the Zweig estate, watching Patrick swim in the deep end of the pool. 

“You seriously not gonna get in?”

Art shrugged, looking anywhere but Patrick, noting the trees, a dove flitting its wings upon a branch, as if preparing for flight. He thought he was fine where he was. He’d always been more than happy just to observe Patrick in any way he could. Patrick made up of taut muscle and stupid, horrifically perverse jokes and a softness that only showed itself when he let it. But, he did move, seating himself at the edge of the pool to submerge himself in that crystalline water from the ankle down. Patrick slotted himself between Art’s legs, pushing his sunglasses up and off the bridge of his nose, which crinkled along with his eyes from the sudden intrusion of sunlight. Close. So close. He could run his hand down the curves of Patrick’s jaw, should he have the bravery to just move his hands. He wanted nothing more than to be brave. He was so glad to be a coward. And Patrick did nothing. Patrick just watched, breathed, maybe even waited. And he rose, soon, pushing off of his elbows to meet Art at eye level, tip of his nose bumping against Art’s. They were close enough to feel the heat of each other’s anticipatory breaths on each other’s skin, close enough to not know whose was whose. Who leaned in first was unclear, but he blamed that on feeling faint. Patrick tasted like stale cigarette smoke and spit, like chlorinated water and wine, like Patrick, Patrick, Patrick and it was so good he moaned down the other boy’s throat. It was warm and soft and insistent and he was going to be sick. He pulled back like he’d been shot, eyes wide and an arm covering his mouth. Patrick frowned, held up his arms as if to surrender, mouth open to ask what's gone wrong. Art scrambled to his feet, only able to get out repeated ‘mm-mm’s before running back inside. Patrick called out for him to wait. He didn’t. 

He stayed locked in the guest room for hours. He watched the sunset through the windows, he smelled dinner being cooked, heard muffled, uninteresting conversation and scraping cutlery against china plates. He saw the shadows of feet planted outside of his door, shifting from one to the other, hesitating, hoping, fearing. They walked away. He had never prayed so passionately in all his life. He could practically feel the flames licking at his feet, the disappointed shaking of heads from above as they looked down at him. How the mighty had fallen. If he had ever been an angel, his wings must have shriveled up and fallen away. He looked down to his chest, feeling for the familiar weight of a crucifix, cold and unyielding. It wasn’t there. 

At midnight, he padded down the hall towards Patrick’s room, planning to do something. What? He wasn’t sure. Apologize? Correct his mistakes? Cry until he couldn’t anymore? But he managed a knock, and the door opened immediately. Like Patrick had been waiting. And they did nothing but stare at each other. One step forward, silent and heavy, then another, another. 

“I have your-”

Art silenced whatever was about to be spoken with his lips, rough and raw and not at all with the delicateness he would’ve chosen if he could think clearly. But, of course, he couldn’t. All he heard was the soft, wet sound of lips coming together, then coming apart, the blood rushing in his ears, and, when he was lucky, Patrick. Patrick practically clawing at Art’s hair, his shirt, his hips, anything he could possibly grab ahold of, and Art doing the same. Wrong, wrong, wrong, and yet, no part of it felt that way. Shouldn’t it feel horrible? Something so sinful should only feel disgusting. Perhaps that was the true test of his faith. Only giving in to temptation could feel so good, and he was meant to resign himself to living life feeling… what exactly? Dulled? Empty? He shall not want. 

“I need to feel bad.”

Patrick pulled away, confused all over again, and Art wanted to smooth the crease between the boy’s brows with his thumb. He resisted the urge.

“Art, what are you talking about?”

“Just… it’s supposed to be wrong. It should feel wrong. It should- it should hurt. I need you to show me it’s wrong… hit me.”

“Art, what?”

He’s laughing uncomfortably, nervously, reaching back out to resume things or just touch, Art’s not sure which. He dodges the movement regardless.

“Hit me. Please, I just- just hit me.” Remind me that it's bad by making me feel the pain I think I should feel and I just don't. 

Hesitantly, Patrick does. He swings an open palm to a flushed cheek and winces at the crack that the connection makes. His palms tingle, Art’s face now a thick, ruddy rouge. He whimpers once, twice, and pulls Patrick right back in. The Lord is his shepherd, he shall not want. And yet, with Patrick walking him backwards towards the plush of his mattress, his touch much softer than to be expected of a man so brash, he can’t help but to think that he is being shepherded by God himself. Otherwise, this would hurt. Nothing not divine could feel so all-consuming. 

Patrick kisses down the lines of his body like it’s worship, like he’s offering his devotion to the shrine of some kind of God, and Art feels like it’s the silliest thing Patrick’s ever done. It would only make sense for the roles to reverse. But they don’t. Not when Patrick is baring himself to Art, firm and strong and vulnerability swimming behind his eyes. Nor does it happen when Art’s bared all the same, bent in on himself as if there was anywhere to hide. But each brush, of fingers, of lips, of tongue, is like a small taste of heaven. And so what if they’re sweating, so what if it’s a sin? Because Patrick’s hand is in his and he hasn’t felt a sense of pride like this since he decided his purpose was to urge Patrick down the right path. How naive. It’d never been him doing the urging. His breath shook afterwards, and he still didn’t quite feel like he’d ever be forgiven. He needed no forgiveness. If being happy was wrong, he hoped to continue to make irrevocable mistakes. He saw the glint of his chain on the wooden floors, lit up by the moon. He turned away from it and found Patrick. For now, that’s all he needed to find.