Send Me 15 Million Dollars If You Want To See Him Again

new zendaya louis vuitton campaign i’m UP

It viscerally pains me whenever someone says Tashi pushes Art to do tennis. Pushes him to perform on that level specifically because she wasn't able to. Not only is just a bad take on the characters, depriving Art of autonomy and Tashi of nuance, but also...do people not realize how painful it would be for her to see that? to be close to every achievement she knew she would have reached in half of the time, and knowing she can't even claim it for her own? It's masochistic just to read, and Tashi is many things (strong and ambitious, to name a few) but never masochistic. She starts to coach Art because he asks for it, she continues because he wants it. It is a mutual choice, one that ends up hurting both of them in their own way, but still a mutual decision.

Whatever pleasure some people like to make it seem like she'd gain from pushing Art to his brink is truly nonexistent.

We'll Never Have Sex

cw: past sexual trama, though nothing is described in graphic detail. please, please take care of yourselves.

an: this is what the poll was for, so for those of you that voted art (and feel comfortable to continue reading) i hope you're happy with the result. this is sort of self indulgent therapy writing, but i hope that you enjoy, whether you recognize the feeling in yourself or not. as always, comments and critiques are welcome, encouraged, and greatly appreciated <3

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It happened at sleepaway camp. He’d gone every single year since he had discovered his love of tennis, which was purely accidental. He got roped into playing by a bunch of sweaty 20 somethings at the park and suddenly he’d found his thing. Sure, he was the youngest by far, a gangly mess of a 7 year old, desperately needing braces, and he was getting beat to a pulp, but he loved it. It was the most rewarding defeat he’d ever experienced. When the game had finished, he was dripping sweat, pale skin flushed red, lungs burning from the gasping breaths he took. These men, once strangers, now some form of friend, clapped him on the back. Praised him like he was the prodigy that the world of tennis needed. He saw their grinning, ruddy, damp cheeks and saw men. Saw who he wanted to be. Saw the male role models he’d never had. He grinned right back. He rushed home to tell his grandmother right after, who he could often find watching the news on the living room couch, about what he just knew was the rest of his life. She told his mother, who was on a business call in her home office at the time, and off he went. Private lessons, town rec teams, visits to the nearest country club and, of course, tennis camp. So much tennis camp. That is, until he stopped going.

He never told his mother why, but she seemed more upset about its absence in his life than he did. Of course, he missed the friends he made, the ones scattered across the United States like dandelion seeds blowing in the wind, he missed the coaches that praised his talent endlessly, he missed the feeling of freedom that being in a ‘home’ without parental supervision brought. But he’d never go back. Not after what happened. 

He can’t remember most of it. Or, more accurately, he refuses to remember most of it. But he knows what they looked like, and the sound that their heavy breaths made. He remembers shaking and blaming it on the cold. He remembers feeling some kind of sickly, tingling sensation that made his toes curl and he liked the way it coiled in his stomach. He would have liked it, maybe, had it been different. Had he been older, wiser, aware of his surroundings. Had he not woken up cornered. The feeling, though, was utterly ruined by coming from rough, uncaring, unwanted hands. He hated himself for being a target, he hated himself for feeling what he did. He wasn’t weak, despite looking it. He technically could’ve pushed them off, hit them, screamed until he coughed up blood, but he did none of that. He let it happen. He figured things would end quicker if he didn’t put up a fight. He doesn’t think his body would’ve been able to fight back even if he had tried to make it. He was too busy trembling, feeling rooted to the paper thin mattress of his bunk bed, failing to blink away tears. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What he once had been so excited for, a boarding school in a warmer climate, freedom from his mother, friends to make that loved tennis the way he did, he now dreaded. His mother noticed that shift he’d gone through, though she blamed it on pubescent hormones and the adolescent need to feel far more adult than one is. The sudden transition from a young boy, social, affectionate, never one to leave the house without wrapping his mother in a hug and pecking Nana on the cheek, to who he is now. Fidgety, withdrawn, the now stronger muscles in his body tensing, body straightening reflexively, as if on the defensive, when he received so much as the slightest brush of a hand. Yet, despite it all, here he is, drop off day at the age of 12, laying across the grass of the front lawn with his hands at his mother’s ankles. Screaming, crying, kicking. Having a temper tantrum in front of all the new classmates he’s meant to impress. After all, these are his future teammates, his future competitors. He will not let himself be preyed upon. 

He can feel the stares, judgemental ones, as people wheel their luggage around him. Fathers with heavy, overloaded cardboard boxes, mothers with younger siblings at their hips, and the fellow incoming class of the tennis academy, now aware that Art kept growing up, but never got older. He doesn’t really remember what he started crying, begging, over, nor does he register what he’s pleading for now. He just knows that his throat hurts, his eyes sting, and his fancy, new back-to-school sneakers are caked in dirt from his stamping feet. But, eventually, his mother’s taxi arrives, and his bags are still laying beside him. She finally gets a hug out of him, though a brief one. 

He kicks open the door, Room 213, and is met with the sight of a boy his age. The unrestrained look of horror on the brunette’s face makes things clear. He’d seen everything. That, or word has already spread through the student body like the lingering exhaustion in Art’s. Patrick, as he’d come to find out, has already taken up his side of the room, suitcase open-faced on his bed. None of the clothes inside are folded, brand name items crumpled haphazardly into balls and stuffed inside. 

Art doesn’t unpack, doesn’t change out of his muddied clothes, doesn’t even bother taking off his shoes, he just lays down. The mattress is thin. Too thin. He can practically feel the metal framing beneath him, slotting between each vertebra. Uncomfortable in a way that only desensitizing yourself to things can fix. He’ll need about a month before he gets a good night’s rest, of that he’s sure. Sometime later, presumably a few hours, based on the sun no longer shining through the window, Patrick carelessly tosses his big to the floor, landing with a loud thump against the old, green carpeting. He lay there, clad in some boxers with a brand name that Art vaguely recognizes, struggling as Art is to find rest. 

Art looks at Patrick’s racket, the only thing placed with care, leaning against the white, painted brick wall. Something expensive. Something new, with bright, beaming orange. Art’s was still tucked away, wrapped up in its plastic encasing, the note from Nana still taped onto it. She wanted him to step into his new, tennis based life with the best racket that their amount of money had to offer. He wants a nice, home cooked meal from Nana. He wants to hear his Mom laugh at whatever mildly funny jab he could manage over dinner. He wants to learn if he could manage a goodnight kiss again. He wants to. He probably can’t.

He rolls onto his side, bars now prodding against his ribs, and faces Patrick’s back. The slow, insistent rise and fall, languid and confident even in unconsciousness, lets Art know he’s asleep. The mattress is thin. Too thin. Paper thin. And Patrick’s unfamiliar, near bare, and has done nothing to prove himself trustworthy. Nothing to show for himself besides a pigsty on the floor, a slighter taller frame, and a fancy racket. He can’t sleep now. Won’t sleep. Patrick could just be another bad memory waiting to happen, and he will not be prey again. He’s worked his body too hard to be stronger, cut out too many snacks, gone on too many runs, for himself to be a victim of something so degrading again. He’s strong. He’s got to be. And he still cries. Cries in desperation to be home again, cries in fear of the child next to him, cries for the desire to be normal. He hopes he’s quiet. No peer of his needs to hear him cry again. He can’t embarrass himself too much today. Can’t be branded a target of teasing and taunts. Patrick hadn’t fallen asleep. 

He felt bad for listening, really, because it seemed wrong to just sit there and make background noise of someone crying. But, it was weird. Art was weird, having yet another bout of tears on his first day. Patrick assumed it was homesickness, a feeling he couldn’t quite understand. He was thrilled to be away from home. He wanted to help, somehow, wanted to get Art to dust himself off and stop crying, for the sake of his own sleep schedule and Art’s dignity come morning. He shifts to his side, now facing Art. Art with his eyes wrenched shut and his hands so tightly clenched they’d turned stark white. Art sobbing into his pillow, turning the pillowcase see through. Think of something. Cheer the kid up. Man up so he can man up.

“You cry like a girl, man, it’s keeping me up.”

He opens his eyes upon hearing it, getting the first taste of Patrick’s voice in his life. They sit there, laying on opposite sides of the tiny room, staring at each other without blinking, and Art laughs. He bursts out laughing like the insult was the funniest thing he’d ever had the pleasure of hearing, and it almost freaks Patrick out until he starts laughing, too. He doesn’t want to make a retort, doesn’t want to do anything but feel the absolute relief of the shift in his brain’s inner monologue. Safe. Patrick was safe. Patrick was as hellishly uncomfortable and desperate for the out sleep provides as he was. 

“Yeah, whatever. Goodnight, dude.”

Patrick cracks a smile, one that only appears on the right side of his face. Smug, like he’d just proved some kind of dominance, won a challenge, earned a prize. Art wasn’t sure what it was, nor did he care. Patrick wasn’t looking at him like he had before, and that was enough to make him feel just the slightest bit better for tonight. 

“Goodnight, crybaby.”

Art decides he likes Patrick’s voice. He’d like to hear it more.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Come on, Donaldson, big serve!”

He’s been playing for hours at this point, the once full indoor courts now having dwindled to just the two of them. Fire and Ice, Patrick and Art. He’s stronger now, subsisting off of lean meat and salad. If anyone catches him grabbing onto walls as he walks, leveraging himself to stay on his feet, stomach growling after a long day of working himself to exhaustion, that’s no one’s business but his own. He feels bad about it sometimes, like when Patrick snuck him a brownie from the cafeteria to celebrate his 16th birthday last month. He tossed it when Patrick went to brush his teeth, carefully hiding it between layers of crumpled napkins and old Gatorade bottles. No one needed to know. 

The ball flies straight into the net. It’s the fifth time in a row. And, no, it’s not because his arms are practically dead weight at this point. He doesn’t get to take breaks. Don’t be weak again. He rolls his shoulders back, resets, serves. Center of the net. Resets, center of the net. Again and again and again. Patrick stands on the other side of it, just watching. Unsure of what to do. Weak, weak, weak, weak, weak. He raises his racket as if to serve, and Patrick repositions himself. He smashes it straight into the ground. One hit for his stupid, shitty game, one hit for never living up to being those guys he met all those years ago, one hit for still looking scrawny despite doing so much not to be, and as many hits as are left in his system for the people who forced him to be this way. 

“Art, dude, it’s ok-”

“Go away, Patrick.”

And he does. Hesitantly, yes, but he listens all the same. The racket lays broken in his hands. The racket Nana had spent her money on. The racket he only used on days where he missed home particularly badly. The one that’d lasted him all these years, now a broken husk, like a tree split by hurricane winds. He throws it somewhere to his side, hears it clutter, skid, thud against something hard. His vision is blotched with the buildup of tears in his waterline. Childish. He feels small. He feels hands on his skin that aren’t there. He scurries over to where the racket’s corpse had landed, makes a futile effort at putting it back together. It never clicks into place, no matter how many shaky, quiet little ‘please, please, come on’s he says. He spends the rest of the night playing against the wall with a floppy, broken racket and aching arms until the timer-run power turns off. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

No one really believed him when he said he’d never done anything. He carried himself so confidently, had the universe granted blessing of good genetics, a natural talent in tennis. Everyone thought he was joking when he said he’d actually never even had a first kiss. And that wasn’t true, necessarily, but he chose to think of things that way. First kisses are romantic, they set off some kind of firework in your mind, they’re full of awkward giggles and bumping noses. And his wasn’t that. It was a stolen kiss. So, no, he’d never been kissed, and if you asked anyone, he’d certainly never gone further. That never bothered you. 

He met you at a party, as he met most people outside of tennis, grinning into the lens of your friend’s polaroid, arms draped across another girl he recognized as Tashi. Tashi he knew, but everyone knew Tashi. Knew of  Tashi, anyway. He’d always been too intimidated to speak to her, and she had a bit of reputation for being callous. But with you, she was smiling, and not in the way she did when she earned a win. Not a righteous smile, but a relaxed one. Fond. And if Tashi could love you, then anyone could. So he talked to you, stumblingly awkward for the first time in years. Each sentence was full of repeated syllables and embarrassed laughs, frequently murmured apologies.

“It’s fine, Art. I think it’s sweet that you’re nervous. Means you care.”

He ended the night walking you back to your dorm, all the way across campus from his. He’d make the walk a million times over if it meant extending the conversation. You had a lightness to you he’d never seen. Words flowed from your lips like wine and they sounded like chirping birds and violins. You moved effortlessly, spoke freely, existed artfully. Hand crafting your mannerisms to perfection. Your confidence wasn’t in unnecessary bravado, belief in oneself, assurance of capacity, but in not caring that you weren’t all that special. And that, in itself, paradoxically made you the most special person he’d ever met. Patrick was going to get sick of hearing your name brought up. Tashi would grow tired of hearing Art’s. Your door had a hand-drawn sign with yours and Tashi’s names in shaky bubble letters. Definitely your handiwork. 

“I’ll see you around, Art.”

And before he can dodge it, or tell you some kind of excuse, you’ve pressed a kiss to his cheek. Innocent, sweet, almost childlike. He feels ill. He’s stiff, the lax smile on his face having withered away into something like shock. Staring at you, through you, off into the distance at nothing at all. You back up.

“Woah, hey… hey, hey, hey, you alright? Did I read this way wrong?”

He zones back in, you can practically see the invisible strings pulling his lips into a smile. Forced. Yours drops. You reach out to comfort the way you best know how, hands moving to rest on his cheeks, but they hover just above them. He’s in the lead here. You won’t move until he does. You aren’t going to do anything until he gives you the ok. And you’d been so soft in every other way, how was he supposed to be disinterested if the sweetness of your soul ran through your skin. Did you run hot, the way he did, a small fire beneath flesh? Or cold, so that he could sink himself into you and feel relief, a mutual exchange? Balancing one another out. Fire and ice. He grabbed your wrists and lowers your hands. He closes his eyes, breathes in deep. Soft. Your trail your thumbs back and forth over him. Not poking, prodding, taking, just learning him. Memorizing his feel beneath your fingers. He doesn’t hesitate when you try and kiss him this time. He lets himself touch back. There’s still lingering nausea fiddling about in his gut, a sense of fear, prepping to have to fight for himself. You pull away, smile, and slink into your room. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Months pass, and he relearns what his body feels like against another person’s. He relearns good morning hugs, and goodnight kisses, brushing shoulders as you walk past him. And it stings like a hand to hot flame, a lesson to learn, something to pull away from. Actions have consequences. But it’s peaceful, all the same. It’s you. It’s indulging in the soft, candlelit glow of who you are. He’d cradle your essence in his palms if he could. If a soul had a manifest form, yours would feel no lack of adoration. Devoted to his worship of you, you, you. He wanted to live in the spaces between your words and drink in your laughs like water. Water is nice, consistent, neutral, but you were ever changing. Never stagnant, never boring. You had a palpable taste, one that clings to his tongue when you’re no longer supplying him with it. He’d take you any day.

Kissing was no longer something he needed as much easing into, at least not most days, which is why he wakes you up with one. You’re still warm from the blankets and fresh sunlight streaming in through glass, like honey. You laugh like wedding bells and wrap yourself in him, and it doesn’t frighten him any longer, to be desired. In fact, he quite likes the feeling most days. And you’re effortlessly beautiful, even with sleep tossed hair and heavy, thick voice, and he aches for you. He’s ached for you for months, reluctantly pulling away from your tongue to watch it form words, feel gentle hands in curling hair. So, for once, he lets things continue. He sees your chest, stomach, thighs, neck, and you can see his. Beautiful, beautiful you splayed out beneath him like a waiting goddess, him eager to please. And he can’t. 

He waits, waits, waits somewhere, watches your expression change, and it just won’t happen. Look down, look up, see something akin to disappointment, and break. Maybe it’s not what he’s made for. Or, if it was, that purpose was taken years back. 

“I’m gonna go take a shower.”

He walks stiffly, meekly, bare and afraid. You lift yourself on your elbows to watch him go. You hear water running. The walls are too thin to hide the sounds he wishes weren’t coming from him. It’s draining, yes, body tingling with the displeasure of unresolved tension, lingering anticipation. But that’s not what matters.

You find him rubbing his skin raw beneath too hot water, pink and uncomfortably thick layers of steam thickening the air till it settles heavy in your lungs. You step in behind him, and he feels you first, sees you second. He hangs his head in defeat.

“It’s not you, I promise. Seriously, it’s not you.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

Maybe you can’t give him what he needs. He can’t give himself that either. But you can give him what he wants. And isn’t that more? To give someone what they need is to keep them living, to give them what they want is to soothe the pain, make things easier, allow them to thrive. Hold him while he struggles to hold himself. He hopes the water streaming down his face hides which droplets on his cheeks are coming from him. He buries his face in your neck, choking on nothing but his own deep seated self loathing.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be. I love you, ok? I love you.”

It’s enough. It’s got to be. Maybe he’ll never fully move past things. Maybe he’s still a kid. Maybe, despite both of your wishes, you’ll never have sex. But here he’s safe, and loved beyond the physical. You turn the temperature down, he sighs, knees buckling, staying upright purely because he’s got you to lean on. He feels cleaner with you, like he’d never been tainted, or like maybe it never ruined him at all. He hasn’t told you, still. He doesn’t have to. You know. You may never make love, but you have it in abundance, and he lets that carry him to sleep that night, wrapped up in your being.

Need mike to do one of those whats in my bag videos

😭😭 literally. get him on vogue’s in the bag NOW

Josh O'Connor!!!!!!!!!!!

THIS IS SO CUTE :(((((

Having dated Art for a while now, the day finally arrives that you get to meet his daughter, Lily.

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆

You've been anxiously wringing your hands together for the better part of half an hour, the action acting as a temporary distraction from the nerves that were churning deep in the pit of your belly.

When you weren't looking out the window of the diner at the people passing by, your eyes would drift back to the small gift bag placed right next to you on the plush leathery seat of the booth. Its soft pink color, embellished with little sparkly flowers and filled with tissue paper that was carefully placed to both conceal and protect your gift inside.

For the umpteenth time since you've sat down, your hand reached down and gently fixed the nonexistent flaws in your appearance, making sure it looked perfect and presentable. You're running a hand down your dress to smooth out the non-existent wrinkles before returning to your hair and blindly touching and feeling, hoping no flyaways had arised.

You didn't want to seem so vain, but you couldn't help it. You had a habit of double and triple checking things when you were nervous, the need for everything to be perfect and the paranoia plaguing you with every possible negative outcome coming together to create an anxiety unlike any other.

And you were nervous, so much so that you felt nauseous and lightheaded. At some other time it would've been funny to you about how you so nervous about meeting an eight year old, but you couldn't find the humor in the situation right as you anxiously sat and waited for Art and his daughter to arrive to the small diner he had suggested.

Lily could only be described as the sweetest girl in the world, and you haven't even met her yet. You only knew that because of what Art had told you. He always talked about her, the unmissable glint of love and adoration sparkling in his eyes every time he mentioned something she'd like or a story she had told him. He valued being a father above any other trophy or accolade he has ever received during his career and would break his back for his sweet girl, that much was obvious.

He had been building up to this moment ever since the two of you became serious. He knew he wanted you in your life permanently quite early on in the relationship actually, but he knew he had to ease things in a little before taking the big step of introducing you to the biggest part of his life; his daughter.

You've met Tashi, whose first introduction also had you on the verge of passing out from anxiety. She was nice, civil, and treated you well the night the night you came over for dinner in her house. That night, after you had gone home, Art had pulled Tashi aside briefly, and when asked about her opinion on you, she replied with a simple I think she's sweet.

You haven't met Lily though, but you were about to and just before your hand could once again return to fiddling with the gift paper, the little bell on the door rang as it pushed open with a soft woosh. Your back straightened against the chair as you caught sight of Art walking in, his eyes finding yours before a soft smile stretched across his face. Right next to him — you'd miss her if you weren't paying attention — was a small girl holding onto his hand. He briefly bent down to say something to her, and she nodded before he was walking over to your table, a corner booth that sat nice and snug at the back but still had a nice window view.

You scooted out of your seat to stand before Art was greeting you with a hug, his hand briefly letting go of Lily's to wrap his strong arms around you. "Hi, sweetheart," he spoke so softly, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek before pulling away with a smile. He turned to Lily, the small sweet smile still stretched across his face as he urged her closer.

She looked up at you, big brown eyes seemingly boring right into your soul and a shy, almost unsure smile. "Hi Lily," you smiled sweetly, hunching down to be more at her level. "It's so nice to meet you," you continued, "I uhm—" you hesitated briefly. "I bought you a gift, I hope you like it." You half awkwardly reach to your seat, grabbing the gift bag before you hand it to her. She receives it with an almost tentative eagerness, smile widening before she gives you a quiet "Thank you," You can already feel your heart melt as her hand reaches in between the paper and a little gasp of excitement escapes her when she sees your gift, eyes meeting yours in what could only be described as deep thankfulness and admiration.

She's not as scary after all.

THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEEE

Get a job. Take some writing classes.

okay, let's talk about this for a moment. a lot of my moots/oomfs have been getting a similar message in their inbox. i don't know if they're coming from the same person or not, and frankly, i don't care.

you are wasting time out of your day to leave a message that you are too cowardly to put an account behind, on a website that was created for the purpose of publicizing self-expression.

i don't care that you don't like my writing. i don't like my writing. i am upset because you are putting legitimate effort into bringing down other people who have absolutely zero impact on your day-to-day life. if anyone needs to get a job, anon, it's you.

i do not know what is possessing you to act with such cowardice, but whatever it is, i hope it gets better for you. in the mean time, stay out of the inboxes of creators who are volunteering their time and their efforts to enrich the lives of others.

i wish you good luck in the future.

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

annie can we kiss under the slide

Snippits from "Endure" [sfw]

A longer piece I'm slowly working on, exploring Patrick's life. It jumps back and forth from the past to the present as he recalls moments from his childhood while also visiting his family properly for the first time in years. If you've stuck around, you've seen me post bits from this before.

I'm taking a mini-break for school right now so I don't have anything new and complete, but I'd like to give you guys a little more from what I've shared before. This is my favorite work in progress right now!

Patrick has a small list of memories he allows himself to think about. He prefers the company of the time he first kissed a girl ('02, Cindie McLoud), or the last time he got a ribeye steak, imagining how the juice pooled down his tongue and throat, the rosemary butter in his nose and the meat in his teeth. They were bittersweet, but they passed the time and dulled the ache in his heart.

His longing heart. How it begged for Patrick to remember more.

There are times he lets himself remember, crystal clear recollections that he calls to only when the cold of winter nips at his bones through the door of his CR-V, the heater cranked too high and Hot-Hands stuffed everywhere he can get them. When the memory of a ribeye does nothing for the groaning rumble of his stomach, as his account mocks him with $27.89, and his tank teasing E. It was a different kind of pain to feel than the freezing bite of cold.

He's biting the end of an unlit cigarette so hard he can taste the filter and even the nicotine, grimacing and spitting it out onto the sidewalk. When he moves to grab another one to light, the pack's empty. Everything Patrick has left is for gas and something to eat tomorrow, so he leaves it, going back to staring at the house before him.

Patrick hasn't been here in almost fifteen years, but it feels like the most familiar place on Earth. He could still map it out, give every corner and every secret and every detail with his eyes closed, tell you the best spots to hide. It almost feels good to be back, like something died in him is giving its last croaking breath and reaching out to that house, and he wants to just shove it back in and turn around.

His father, narrow-browed and imposing at the head of the table, sipping from wine as he fired accusations across to him.

"How's your forehand? It better be improving."

"I've spoken to your coaches, do you think you're doing good? Don't lie to me, boy"

"Your teachers say you've been slacking off. Is this how your mother and I raised you? A slacker. A failure?"

The last one spoken as he loosened his tie, the table quiet and as tense as a pulled bow. Everyone waited for his fingers to slip, for the arrow to shoot. Patrick could feel it strike him right in his heart. His longing heart.

"Your mother and I've decided you're staying during the breaks. It's a waste of time— I'll pay someone to keep coaching you there."

He was bleeding into his lap, sputtering onto the table, pooling across the floor beneath him and soaking into his socks, and nobody cared to ask.

The next Christmas break is spent on the court, hitting targets and biting the inside of his cheeks. Going back to climb into his empty room with his arms screaming exhaustion and legs shaking with every step, Art's side silent and empty, with a small envelope on his bed and $500 inside. Flipping the envelope upside down. Maybe, just maybe... no. No card.

His eyes stayed on the flashing red and green lights out his window, wondering what they're doing back home, listening to Backstreet's Back low on Art's stereo. Imagining the taste of his grandmother's challah and brisket and wishing his father was pulling that bow and pointing it to his chest at the table. Patrick whispered what he thought he'd say, harsh and cutting and accusatory, the words seeping into the wallpaper and holding them for him.

He couldn't look at it, at those walls holding his pain in its pores. Patrick could hear them spoken back like an echo, and covering his ears did nothing to stop them. The words like water seeping through the cracks in his fingers, pouring and absorbing into him until they became everything he is. His whole body the voice of his father across the table. Even now, at thirty-one, he's never been wrung dry.