Annie Can We Kiss Under The Slide

YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

… how do we feel about an all tashi release. need to show that girl some love (and give those white boys a BREAK)

Zendaya for On: Zone Dreamers

i want to line them up and tuck them into bed with the blanket just below their chins all snuggly

meet… STANFORD ERA LESBIAN!ATP .ᐟ ★

a/n: hi guys the much promised part two of lesbian!atp headcanons… stanford edition! so sorry it took me three weeks to get these out i am in an insane slump right now…… i’ll be free soon (hopefully) i have so much i want to get out. and also thank you @peariote some of these are taken from conversations we have had… and thank you @diyasgarden my lovely for helping me flesh out tashi. anyway. please enjoy. smiles. 

CW: hints at nsfw

ART - VISUAL ARTS MAJOR .ᐟ

– VISUAL ARTS MAJOR ART who swears you’re her muse. Always begging you to let her use you as a model for whatever she’s working on, he’s positive her work simply turns out better when it’s of you. Nevermind the fact you’re almost always nude. 

– VISUAL ARTS MAJOR ART who is always covered in charcoal and paint, to the point he’s like a magnet. Even if she’s not doing a project with those mediums, it still finds its way onto him. Little do you know it’s because you said you loved the way she looks with it one day, and she’s never looked back.

– VISUAL ARTS MAJOR ART who loves that he has to learn photography because it means she can always capture moments of you for forever. Always has a camera on him whenever he’s with you to make sure she doesn’t miss anything. Anything from being in the shower to falling apart under her. She even teaches you photography just so you can take photos of her between your thighs or when her hands are too busy elsewhere to hold a camera.

– VISUAL ARTS MAJOR ART whose exhibitions always feature at least one piece of you, whether it be painting, photo, or sculpture, and are always dedicated to you. Whenever he sneaks you in for ‘early access,’ he always shows you these with the biggest grin on her face. She swears one day he’s going to do an exhibition solely of you (Never including the nude pieces. Those are hers and hers only). You know she will.   

PAT - FINANCE MAJOR .ᐟ

– FINANCE MAJOR PAT who went into finance for his parents, who want her to take over after graduating. He absolutely hates it, but listens and goes for the four years anyway. Their grades are average, simply because she cannot care enough to do more than scrape by. Despite the hatred, she still becomes the biggest finance bro possible. 

– FINANCE MAJOR PAT who has in fact been attempted to be recruited to a frat before. Walking past a tent during rush week had them handing him a form until they opened their mouth and spoke. This is his favourite story to tell when trying to get someone into her bed (“Come on, I was basically a frat brother. I can show you a good time too.”).

– FINANCE MAJOR PAT who is somehow at a new party every night. Brings a new girl home every night too, partially in thanks to the frat story above. Is known around campus for being the biggest sleazebag ever, but no one really cares if it means they get a night with her. 

– FINANCE MAJOR PAT who meets you and decides maybe you can change them. A one night stand where you treat her the best he’s ever been treated absolutely changes her world, and one night turns into two, and then three, and then she decides maybe there is more to life than just sleeping around and finally locks you down for herself (but it does take time for her to get used to just the one person, and there are some flirting incidents in the beginning). 

TASHI - COGNITIVE SCIENCE MAJOR .ᐟ

– COG SCI MAJOR TASHI who is the most disciplined person in college. Like poster girl of discipline level discipline. She creates a schedule and actually sticks to it. As you spend more time with her, you eventually catch onto it as well, and start doing most things together.

– COG SCI MAJOR TASHI who is incredibly dedicated to her studies. One of the top students in her classes. She is always studying whenever she has time, but hates not being around you. Her favourite kind of date is studying with you at a library or cafe, where she doesn’t need to choose between you and her work. 

– COG SCI MAJOR TASHI whose favourite courses are the natural sciences, particularly chemistry and biology. Something about learning how the body’s natural chemicals and processes draws her in, but she wants to make a difference with it, to make it mean something. So she minors in sociology alongside cog sci. 

– COG SCI MAJOR TASHI who eventually takes the MD and PhD route, so she can do research and help in a medical setting. She spends her time in class one day, volunteering at a hospital and shadowing a doctor the next, and uses what she learns to do exactly what she wanted to. To do something bigger than herself.

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THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEEE

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.

He’s like a toddler exhausted a long hard day of playing with blocks for an hour

the cry I let out

three celebrities that aren't dead:

michael jackson

talia asheepinfrance

someone else probably

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.

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 he helped her cheat) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.

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

hm.....................................

my theory….