Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

September 8, 2019 – New York City

The second the elevator doors close behind Patrick, he wastes no time in draping himself over Art’s back, snaking a hand around his waist to pull him flush against Patrick’s chest. Art doesn’t resist—he simply grabs the hand that Patrick has on his belly and twines their fingers together. He leans back even further into Patrick's body, while simultaneously trying to continue walking down the long hotel hallway, as if he isn’t practically dragging Patrick along with him. 

He hides his giddy grin in Art’s neck, humming at the fresh smell of his cologne and the familiar hint of clean sweat underneath that. God, he wants to swim in Art’s scent after going so long without it. 

Maybe that’s the three—four?—margaritas from dinner speaking, but the point still stands. 

“For fuck’s sake, you two can’t even wait until we actually get to the room?” Tashi teases. 

Patrick knows that she’s mostly pretending to be annoyed with them; he can hear the way she’s biting back her own tequila-tipsy smile. 

“Nope,” Patrick replies, voice muffled in Art’s shoulder. He gives a light nip to Art’s neck, which only makes Art honest-to-god giggle and bring their tangled hands to his own mouth to bite Patrick right back, clumsily sinking his teeth into the meaty flesh on the backside of his thumb. 

And look, Patrick has been good all fucking day, has kept his hands to himself against all temptation. Like when Art was preparing for his match, looking all stoic and broody during his stretches and drills. Or during the hours of press after the match, watching him pose with his trophy—smile so uncontained and bright and real —and talking to sports reporters, basking in his victory and subsequently officially announcing his retirement. Even when they got all dressed up for celebratory dinner and drinks with his team and Tashi’s family, Patrick stayed on his very best behavior. 

Honestly, he thinks he deserves some credit for waiting this long to get his hands on Art, when every cell in his body has been begging to show Art just how proud of him he is all day long. 

2019 US Open Men’s Singles Champion, Art Donaldson, that is. 

Career Grand Slam Winner, Art fucking Donaldson.

Fuck, thinking back to where he was a month ago—barely a blip on the radar of Art’s life—Patrick can hardly believe he let Art out of his reach long enough for him to even play in the damn US Open at all, let alone go out and win the whole fucking thing. Everything still feels so surreal to him, having Art and Tashi back. 

After the New Rochelle Challenger, the three of them collectively, and only somewhat reluctantly, swallowed their pride and agreed to talk things out—or, more aptly, fuck things out—and just like that Patrick became an official card-carrying member of Team Donaldson for the month leading up to the Open. He served as an additional hitting partner for Art and another set of eyes for Tashi, as someone who knows Art’s game almost as well as she does. 

And, to pretty much all of their surprise, everything just worked . Things between the three of them were easy, in a way they really haven’t been for any of them in so damn long. Patrick isn’t sure if it’s just the honeymoon phase of this new thing between them or what, but he’s starving for anything Art and Tashi are willing to give him. And honestly, they seem just as desperate for him too, so he’s hardly complaining. 

A small part of him worries that when reality sets in things will become more complicated, but for right now, he just wants to enjoy this new space he occupies in their life. Even if he isn’t completely sure what that space actually is. 

But again, for now he’s choosing to simply enjoy fancy dinners with Art and Tashi, luxurious hotel suites, and daily rounds of vigorous, truly Olympic-level sex. He almost has whiplash thinking about how just a month ago he was trolling Tinder, desperate for a bed to sleep in—settling for his car on nights that failed—and ignoring the echoing pangs of hunger cramping his stomach far too often. 

He doesn’t like to think about that, though. Not when he has Art in his arms and Tashi leaning against the open hotel room door, watching them make their way to her with a glimmer in her eye that looks a lot like love. 

When they finally reach the room, Patrick pushes Art over the threshold and pulls Tashi in behind them. He shoves Art’s back against the wall and closes the space between them. His greedy hands frame Art’s alcohol-blushed cheeks and he kisses the ever-loving shit out of him, like he’s been dying to do all fucking day, all teeth and tongue and sucking lips. 

After a few minutes, or seconds—honestly, time has a weird way of warping whenever Patrick finds himself kissing Art—Tashi must get impatient watching them make-out like horny teenagers. She presses herself up against Patrick’s back, with one hand twisting into his curls and the other scratching gently against Art’s neck. 

Art groans appreciatively as she whispers, “My turn,” and yanks Patrick’s head out of her way. 

Patrick doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of watching Art and Tashi kiss, especially after imagining it in his most shameful fantasies over the years. It’s like every wet dream he’s ever had is materializing in front of his eyes, and a tiny part of him is still in shock that he gets to be in the middle of it. 

Literally in the middle of it—they’re kissing over Patrick’s shoulder, while his body is blessedly sandwiched between theirs. 

Not one to idly stand by and watch—even when the show is as fucking gorgeous as this—Patrick cranes his neck back so he can leave hot, open-mouthed kisses along Tashi’s throat, then after a while leans forward to do the same to Art’s. 

Tashi hums softly, then uses the hand she still has in Patrick’s hair to pull him into his own kiss too. It’s possessive and messy, and Patrick can’t help but smile into it, gut going warm and tingly at the feeling of her hungry lips against his. 

Tashi pulls away and turns to give Art one last quick peck, before she untangles herself from both of them and kicks her heels off. They both watch her slink towards the bedroom, gazes tracing the outline of her skin-tight cocktail dress, as she announces over her shoulder that she’s going to change. 

When Tashi is out of sight, Patrick turns back to Art, meeting his heavy-lidded gaze and lazy half-smile. God, he looks so young, so carefree like this. Patrick’s heart clenches, reminding him painfully of how they didn’t have this for so, so long. 

Plus, he’s seen Art drunk enough times in their childhood to know that he is absolutely feeling the two drinks he had at dinner. 

Art was the one who declared that he wanted margaritas to celebrate tonight, since he hasn’t had one in years, and Patrick can tell that his tolerance has definitely gone to shit from denying himself of his vices for so long. That, and Patrick is sure that the electrifying final match has left his body utterly depleted, allowing the alcohol to settle in without any buffer. 

“Hey,” Art grins at him, teeth catching on his bottom lip, while his hands slide down Patrick’s spine and settle in his back pockets. 

And look, Patrick is merely a man—who is he to resist Art Donaldson, the fucking minx that he is? So he presses in close, leaving a feather-light press of his lips to Art’s, then pulls back, leaving just a hairsbreadth of space between them. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to kiss you today.”

He feels, rather than sees, the pleased smile rise on Art’s lips. 

“I think I have some idea.” 

This time Art closes the gap between them, sucking on Patrick’s top lip then swiping his tongue deep into his mouth. They both taste like tequila and lime, and Patrick chases the hint of sugar clinging to Art’s tongue from the dressing on his glass. Sugar, not salt, because he said if he’s celebrating anyway, he may as well indulge his neglected sweet tooth. 

And, fuck, is he sweet, with or without the sugar. 

They maybe get a little carried away, kissing each other like the world will end if they stop, because when Tashi emerges from the bedroom they’re still going at it. 

“Jesus, don’t you ever come up for air?” 

He reluctantly pulls himself off Art’s lips, and proudly retorts, “Hey, I didn’t hear you complaining about that last night.” 

Tashi just shrugs, feigning nonchalance, not giving Patrick the satisfaction of a response. 

But now he’s thinking about the night prior, which may have been one of the hottest nights of his fucking life—Art fucked him deep and slow for what felt like hours , and Tashi took it upon herself to, quote, put his mouth to good use , and mercilessly sat on his face the whole time, while pinning his hands against the bed. 

It’s already been promoted to the first slot in his spank bank, not that he anticipates having to actually use it anytime soon, but still. 

Art just chuckles, breath fanning against Patrick’s neck, while Tashi rolls her eyes again. 

She’s dressed way down, just in an oversized t-shirt that reaches mid-thigh, and Patrick would bet she only has a pair of her nice, lacy panties on underneath that. Her hair is brushed out and fluffing around her face, and even her cheeks are twinged with a happy flush. 

God, she looks so fucking good when she actually lets herself relax. 

She settles herself on the couch and crosses her long legs beneath her, fixing Patrick with a mischievous grin. 

“I think Art needs another drink.”

Now that , Patrick can get behind. 

He smirks, “Oh, he absolutely does.” 

Art groans, just to be a contrarian little shit, Patrick is sure. He pretends to be annoyed by the two of them ganging up on him now, but Patrick knows he secretly loves it.

Patrick pulls him away from the wall, giving his shoulders a comforting little squeeze while he croons, “Go slip into something more comfortable, baby, I’ll fix you up a nice drink.”

“What a good little mistress you are,” Art teases, while squeezing Patrick’s ass as he removes his hands from his pockets. 

“Fuck yes I am.” 

As Art turns toward the bedroom, Patrick can’t pass up the opportunity to give his ass a hard smack. 

Art simply flips him the bird over his shoulder, which makes a laugh burst out of Patrick’s chest as he walks to the kitchen. 

“I asked Jeff to grab the stuff to make margaritas while we were gone, everything should be on the counter,” Tashi alerts him. 

God, he forgot how much easier life is when you’re rich. 

On the counter he can see a bottle of Patrón silver, a bottle of triple sec, two different flavors of margarita mix, and a bag of limes—considerately dropped off by Tashi’s assistant. 

He grabs three glasses from the cabinet and starts eyeballing the liquor, when Tashi yells out, “Make me one too.”

“Obviously,” he scoffs, as if he wasn’t literally already doing just that. 

Classic lime for Tashi and Patrick, strawberry for Art. He even cuts a lime up and adds little wedges to the edge of the glasses. 

He finishes assembling the drinks—which may or may not technically be considered margaritas by anyone’s standards—and brings one to Tashi, only handing it over when she presses a sweet kiss to his lips. 

“For you, coach.”

A pleased smile teases on her face. 

Art isn’t the only one that won the Open today, and Tashi knows that a huge percentage of Art’s win is because of her coaching. She deserves her fair share of recognition, and Patrick is more than happy to give it to her. 

Plus, Patrick has own personal stakes in the game now, too. 

While Tashi was fielding hours of questions from the press regarding Art’s upset of a victory, his retirement, and her future plans as a coach, she dropped a shocking announcement of her own—that in the upcoming season Tashi would be taking on Patrick Zweig, ranked 271 in the world, as her new player. 

The reporters were—frankly, understandably—shocked by her announcement, but from what Tashi has gathered from monitoring the situation the overall reaction is mixed, possibly skewing towards positive. 

He doesn’t really care what people think about him, per se, but he does care about what it might mean for Tashi, and by association, Art. 

However, what Patrick did worry about was that announcing it off the heels of Art’s win would take the attention away from the two of them—where it belongs—but Art was insistent that Tashi use the victory to highlight her own career. Give everyone something to talk about going into the off-season. 

And Patrick is, of course, endlessly pleased that it’s official. That he has a public tie to the Donaldsons for at least the next year. 

He’s also really fucking grateful that Tashi agreed to coach him in the end, that she sees enough potential in him to risk her career like that. 

He goes back to the kitchen to grab the other two glasses, and by the time he returns Art is settling on the other portion of the L-shaped sectional with his body facing Tashi, dressed in a worn down pair of gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. 

Patrick hands Art the strawberry margarita and takes a sip of his own, smiling into it when Art sputters.

“Did you put fucking gasoline in this? Jesus Christ,” he chokes, face scrunching up. 

“Don’t be such a pussy,” Tashi replies, taking a healthy sip of her own drink without even the slightest twitch of her face. 

Patrick sets his glass down on the coffee table, and heads to the bedroom to change as well, feeling overdressed in his fancy slacks and button-down shirt. Well, Art’s fancy slacks and button-down shirt. 

Stripping quickly, he throws on his own sweats and one of Art’s t-shirts, then makes his way back to the living room, where Art and Tashi are laughing loudly. 

They fill him in on what’s so funny as he sinks into the couch, plopping his feet right into Art’s lap—because he knows better than to do that to Tashi, obviously—and he finds himself laughing too, just because they are. 

The three of them sit like that, shooting the shit and drinking their questionable margaritas, reliving their favorite parts of Art’s final match and making fun of some of the insane, out-of-pocket questions the press asked them today, and it’s nice . It’s the first time the US Open isn’t looming over them like a storm cloud, the first time they can truly just be together without something else to worry about. 

Though, leave it to Tashi to find something to busy herself with.

“Oh, come on Tash, you’re addicted to that thing,” he jokes as she starts scrolling on her phone. 

“What? Now that some time has passed I just want to see how the reception is to Art’s win and you being my new protégé ,” she says with a wiggle of her eyebrows.

“Who cares what people think?”

Art pinches his ankle, head lolling on the couch cushion to look at Patrick with a goofy, but knowing grin and glassy eyes.

“The sooner you accept that Tashi needs to be three steps ahead, the better it will be for you, trust me. Just let it happen, pal.” 

Patrick pokes Art’s ribs with his toe, hoping to get him in a ticklish spot, but Art somehow evades him, even in his drunk state. Patrick keeps trying to aim his toes into Art’s side, and Art starts trying to push his feet away, while still gripping his drink protectively in one hand, and they’re both giggling like fucking kids, so neither of them hears Tashi’s surprised gasp.

Art notices that something is off first, since he’s looking in her direction.

“What? S’wrong?” He asks, concerned voice borderline slurring. 

Patrick looks over to her then, and sees that all the color has drained from her face, and her eyes are wide with shock. She looks up from her phone and stares directly at Patrick, with something akin to dread in her expression.

The look in her eyes makes his stomach drop. Are people outraged that Tashi is training him, or something? Did he do something awful that he doesn’t remember? Are they bashing Tashi for associating with him? Or Art? 

“What?” He asks cautiously. 

Tashi swallows, mouth opening and closing like she can’t decide what to say. 

“It’s… it’s your dad?” She pitches the word dad up, like a question. 

Patrick bristles at that, half-convinced he misheard her. His asshole father being the last thing he expected her to bring up. 

“What about him? Did he say something fucked-up, or something?” 

“Patrick—” she just blinks, then scrambles for the TV remote. She powers it on and flips through a couple channels.

Patrick sits up straight, watching her hold the remote with a white-knuckle grip, when she finally settles on a channel. 

He glances up at the TV, and it takes longer than he cares to admit for the words on the screen to click in his mind. 

BREAKING NEWS: RICHARD ZWEIG, THREE-TERM CONNECTICUT SENATOR-(R) DIES AT AGE 68. 

Every muscle in his body freezes at once—all he can do is stare at the screen, reading those words over and over and over again but not comprehending them at all. The newscasters must be talking, but he can’t hear them, not over the sharp ringing in his ears. Art and Tashi scoot closer to him on the couch, but he is barely aware of either of them anymore, his vision tunneling to only focus on the TV screen. 

The broadcast alternates between the hosts speaking and photos of his father, his official Senate headshots and action shots of him on Capitol Hill or campaigning in Patrick’s hometown. 

“For those of you just joining us, the nation's capital is shocked and saddened by the news of the unexpected death of Senator Richard Zweig of Connecticut. At this time the cause of death has not been released, but the wife of the now-late Senator, Fairfield County District Attorney Diane Zweig, has confirmed the news and reaffirmed that it was unexpected for the family. Richard Zweig’s daughter, Dr. Madeline Zweig-Bergman, a pediatric surgeon at Yale New Haven Hospital, has already shared a touching tribute to her father on the social media platform Twitter, requesting privacy for the family at this time.”

He feels like he’s underwater, like the newscasters words are distorted and wavy in his ears. The picture changes to a screenshot of the tweet that his sister apparently posted, but his eyes are blurry. Unfocused. 

“Interestingly, this news breaks on the same day that Richard Zweig’s son, Patrick Zweig, was seen at the US Open, appearing to attend in support of the Men’s Singles Champion, Art Donaldson. Additionally, it was announced that Patrick would be coached by Art Donaldson’s wife and former coach, Tashi Donaldson, in the upcoming season. At this time media outlets have been unable to contact Patrick regarding a statement, but speculation has emerged in political spheres regarding possible estrangement, as he has not been seen publicly with the Zweig family since a fundraising event in 2015.”

A professional-looking photo of him and Tashi in Art’s player box today fills the screen, and the sight of his own face pops the bubble on whatever stupor he was trapped in. 

Nope, nope, nope—he’s not doing this. Not today. Not when this was such a good fucking day.

He springs off the couch, grabbing his half-empty margarita, and downs it in one go. He can feel Art and Tashi’s eyes on him, burning a hole into his back. 

“Patrick, has anyone tried to call you?” Tashi asks, voice uncharacteristically soft. It’s unsettling to him. He doesn’t need Tashi to be gentle. Not for this. 

He shrugs, reaching in his pocket to hand Tashi his phone. His first day under her management and he’s already creating a shit-storm for her to deal with. How fucking great.

“It’s dead.” Because of course it is, it’s a piece of shit. Just like his car, just like his career, just like him , he thinks, that last part sounding suspiciously like a ghost. 

He’s vaguely aware of Tashi sighing behind him, and her quiet footsteps as she presumably goes to the bedroom to plug his phone in for him. He stares at the empty space she just occupied, desperate for her to come back. 

On the other hand, he’s painfully aware of Art behind him, his quiet presence so fucking loud in Patrick’s head. He can’t find it in himself to turn and face him, though. Instead, he looks back at the TV—where they’re now discussing legal protocols for what to expect when a sitting politician dies in the middle of their term. 

Because he’s dead.

His father is dead . 

And even though Art—who he longed for in his darkest moment, who he’s spent the past twelve years missing like a fucking limb—is here, in this room, he can’t just turn around and look at him . 

Because unlike Tashi, Art knows . He’s met Patrick’s father. Has seen what he is capable of. 

Or, at least a fraction of what he’s capable of. But even Art doesn’t know what happened that night , the night that Patrick would rather die than remember… 

A sinking feeling settles in his limbs, and he fears that this is a particular demon he won’t be able to escape much longer.  

Fuck, he’s spiraling. 

This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go. He doesn’t want to fucking deal with this. 

“Patrick.”

No, no—he’s not letting Art’s day be ruined. 

He forces himself to take a deep breath, and turns to face Art. He plasters what he hopes is a smile—but from the weird way his lips pull and the divot he can feel between his eyebrows, he doesn’t think it’s anywhere close—and tries to look Art in the eyes. Tries to pretend that nothing is happening. That they’re still just drunk and happy, basking in Art’s success and the freedom of his retirement. 

“Pat—” he starts again. That light, carefree youth from earlier is notably missing from his face. It makes Patrick sick with guilt. 

“No Art, it’s fine, okay? We should still celebrate, nothing has changed.” 

A dubious expression crosses Art’s face, twisting Patrick’s insides even more. 

“Patrick,” it’s Tashi this time, standing in the bedroom doorway. “Your sister is calling.” 

He can’t help the confused furrow of his brows, the way his head tilts at the words leaving Tashi’s mouth. He doesn’t think his sister has ever called him, not once in his entire thirty-one years of life. He’s honestly surprised that she has his fucking phone number at all. 

“She’s, um, called a few times,” she adds, looking so oddly out of her depth. 

He doesn’t look back at Art. His legs just start moving toward Tashi, toward the bedroom where his phone is vibrating against the nightstand. 

Before he makes it all the way there the vibrating stops, and his screen goes black. Barely a second passes before it lights up again, and he’s close enough this time to see the contact “ maddie ” flash across the cracked screen. 

Patrick doubts she even goes by Maddie, anymore. 

His finger slides across the screen to accept the call, before he even consciously decides to do so. 

“Hello?” He has to clear his throat against the sudden hoarseness there. 

“Patrick, where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for hours.” 

“You—you have?” 

He looks over to Tashi, as she exits the room and pulls the door closed behind her. Presumably to give him privacy, but it only serves to make him feel trapped, like he’s locked in a prison cell he’ll never escape from. 

“Yes, Patrick, I have.” She sounds frustrated, her voice tight.

“I’ve been busy today, must not have noticed my phone was dead.”

Everything he says sounds like a question, slow and heavy leaving his mouth, like he’s unsure how to even form words anymore.

She scoffs, “Yeah, I’m sure you’ve had a real busy day, but while you were watching grown men hit a ball around, our father was dying, and no one could get ahold of you.” 

“What the fuck, Maddie? You could stand to lose the attitude, okay, it’s not like I fucking killed him.” 

“I fucking know that, Patrick,” she grits out, then takes what sounds like a deep, calming breath. “I know. I’m sorry, okay? Everything happened so fast, and we’re all a bit high-strung right now.”

“What did happen?” He asks, letting his curiosity get the better of him. 

“Heart attack,” she says bluntly. “Massive one. He died before they even got him to the cath lab.” 

“Did that fucker suffer, at least?”

“What the hell is your problem? Have some fucking respect,” she spits. 

“He doesn’t deserve it.” 

“You’re such a fucking child—” she starts, an exact echo of the words Tashi said to him a month ago, which feels like a slap in the face, “—actually, no. I work with children all day and they all have more tact than you.”

“How the fuck would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever actually tried to get to know me.”

“Who’s fault is that, Patrick? Certainly not mine. I’m not the one who left without a word and never spoke to anyone in the family ever again. I’m not the one with some weird vendetta against everyone.”

Patrick rears back, clenching his fists against the onslaught of white-hot rage that fills his system. 

“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. No fucking idea what he put me through, what he did—” he cuts himself off, stops that train of thought right in its tracks. 

“Right, I’m sure your childhood was awful. If only I could imagine what it would be like to be raised by our parents.” 

“Fuck you, Madeline.” 

The alcohol in his system is doing weird things with his frustration, like making his eyes sting with unwelcome tears. He’s so fucking tired, all of a sudden, he doesn’t have the energy to fight anymore. “Why did you call me?”

She lets out a resigned breath. “This is a big deal. You need to come home.”

He scoffs. “No.” 

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” 

“I’m not coming home.” Not a chance in hell. 

“Are you planning to come to the funeral?”

“Well, seeing as I literally just found out about everything like ten minutes ago, I haven’t made any fucking plans.”

“You need to go,” she says, not leaving any room for him to argue. “It will look bad if you don’t go.”

“Look bad for who, exactly? It won’t really impact a dead guy’s political career, now will it?”

“Are you incapable of seeing things beyond your own fucking nose?”

He can’t do this. The conversation is going nowhere, he can’t put up with this any longer. It’s not like Maddie has tried to reach out to him all these years. He’s not going to sit here and let her blame him for everything. 

“I’m sorry for your loss, sis. But that’s all I’m sorry for.” He goes to hang up, but thinks to add: “Actually, I’m sorry that you didn’t see him for who he was. At least I don’t have to live my life not knowing that I shared a roof with a fucking monster.” 

He doesn’t wait for a response. He just ends the call and turns his phone back off. The only people he would want to hear from are a wall away anyway. 

The quiet stillness of the room settles over him. He blinks, then stares at a feather poking out of the down comforter beside his thigh. Eyes focusing, and unfocusing, over and over again, until stars start to swirl around the feather. He reaches for it, tries to pinch it between his fingers, but he can’t. He’s shaking, he realizes dumbly. 

Huh. How ‘bout that. 

Watching his fingers tremble, he can’t help but let out a dry, humorless laugh. That conversation went about as well as he could’ve expected, given everything. 

He doesn’t know why a tiny part of him is hurt that she didn’t actually seem to want him there for any other reason than to keep up appearances. It’s not like he’s had anything resembling a familial tie to any of them in God-knows how long, but still. 

The reminder that he’s mutually not missed hurts more than he cares to admit, even to himself. 

Eventually, he forces himself to stand on weak legs and slowly walk to the door. Back to Tashi and Art in the living room. Back to the only two people who actually give a shit about him. 

When he opens the door, both of their heads swivel toward him, matching looks of guilt and helplessness on their faces. 

He supposes he wasn’t quiet on the phone. Of course they’d have overheard. 

The TV is still on behind them, another photo of his father filling the screen. Is it a slow fucking news day, or what?

“Senator Zweig was in the middle of the third year of his third term, where he served the people of Connecticut as a Republican. Before the Senate, he served as a Congressman for Connecticut’s Fourth District, where he sat for eight years in the House of Representatives. He spent his early life as an accomplished corporate lawyer, after graduating with honors from Yale Law School in 1976. He is largely revered by his Republican colleagues for being an outspoken champion for traditional family values and his pro-American Dream rhetoric. Even his political adversaries from across the aisle, so to speak, typically consider Senator Zweig to be a fair and level-headed leader, one who garners respect in all circles. We know the people of Connecticut and across the nation will certainly feel his absence for years to come.” 

“Turn it off.” 

Art and Tashi just continue staring at him, like they’re waiting for a bomb to go off in his fucking head. 

“Turn it off ,” he repeats, nearly begging. He can’t listen to people praise him, call him fair and level-headed or a champion for traditional family values . 

They don’t fucking know. No one fucking knows . 

Tashi thankfully turns the TV off, but the silence is still so loud in the room that his ears start to ring again, a high-pitched buzzing through his temples. 

He looks between them, though his gaze bounces off Art faster. His eyes are a little too knowing for Patrick to handle right now. 

He settles on Tashi. She’s easier, somehow. Safer. 

He opens his mouth, but he apparently is still having trouble forming words. Or maybe, he just doesn’t know what to fucking say. 

After a few false starts, he simply settles on: “Who wants another drink?”

Tashi’s face scrunches up, just an incremental amount, but it’s enough to make his hackles raise into defensiveness. 

“Do you really think that’s a good idea right now?” 

He chances a glance at Art, but the look of soft understanding only makes Patrick want to build his walls up higher. 

“I thought we were celebrating.” 

They’re both unsure how to respond, it seems. When the silence drags on, Patrick decides to take matters into his own hands. 

He retreats back to the kitchen and returns with the mostly still-full bottle of Patrón. He takes a long pull straight from the bottle, then offers it between the two of them. They just look at each other, speaking in their silent marriage-language that Patrick isn’t privy to, and it prickles at the back of his neck—the feeling of being left out, of being talked about. 

When neither of them takes him up on his offer, he simply takes another gulp of the tequila. It goes down easier than the shit he’s used to. It’s the good stuff—the expensive stuff. 

“Patrick, why don’t you just come sit down, alright?” Art doesn’t sound any less drunk, even with how clear and assessing his eyes look now. 

“No, look—we shouldn’t let that asshole ruin this for you. For both of you. It’s still your day, right?” 

“Patrick,” Tashi sighs. Uh-oh, she’s using her mom voice, the one she reserves for Lily, and sometimes Patrick when she wants him to do something or finds him particularly irritating. It’s still super fucking weird to him, to be honest. Plus, it usually turns him on, much to Tashi’s annoyance. “We can’t just pretend that this isn’t happening. Bad timing? Sure. But we need to deal with this. He’s still your dad—”

“No he’s fucking not,” he interrupts, voice so hard it even startles himself. “He’s not. He made that crystal fucking clear when he fucking disowned me.” 

Fuck, shit—too much. He needs to lock himself down, sew his mouth shut. He can’t talk about it. He can’t. 

He wants to bring them back around, figures maybe if he tries hard enough he can salvage this. 

“From the way I see it, we should still celebrate. If not for you, then for the world having one less awful fucking person in it.” 

When neither of them speaks this time, he feels like he’s dangling over a ledge, one slip of a finger away from plummeting to his death. 

Their twin stares threaten to light him on fire, and he just doesn’t have the energy to stand here and be picked apart by them right now, not if they’re going to continue giving him fucking nothing . 

This hotel suite feels too small, too crowded with them here. He’s gripped by the need to run. To get away, to be anywhere but in their gaze.

Something he never thought he’d want again. 

With his hand still gripping the bottle tight, he reaches for the pack of cigarettes and lighter he left on the counter and starts toward the balcony. 

Neither Art nor Tashi tries to stop him, to follow him. They don’t say anything at all. 

He throws himself onto one of the cushioned patio chairs and lights up a cigarette, chasing the smoke with more sips of tequila. 

There’s a slight chill to the air, marking the slow New York City transition from summer to autumn. Noise from the street is faint from this high up, but it still fades pleasantly into the background. It makes Patrick’s frayed nerves feel oddly settled, proof that the world is still operating as normal beneath him. 

Over the years, throughout his childhood—and especially the past four years—Patrick has lain awake at night, imagining this. His father, six feet fucking under. He imagined that he’d feel vindicated, that his shoulders would magically become lighter with the knowledge that he’d never have to live up to his father’s impossible standards again. Never fall flat, never be a disappointment. 

Never have to fear his labile temper. 

So why does he feel this heavy? This… conflicted?

Like the rug has been pulled out from right under his feet, just after he finally found his footing on solid ground. 

His fingers continue to tremble as he sucks his cigarette down. 

He stays out on the balcony until he smokes through his entire pack. 

* * *

By the time he stumbles back inside, more than half the bottle is gone when he slams it heavily on the counter. He’s honestly surprised that he managed to even open the sliding balcony door in this state. 

His head is spinning—or maybe it’s the room that’s spinning around him—and he has to squint his eyes against the bright overhead lights that are still on in the living room. 

He must not be very quiet, because a sleeping Art stutters awake, rising back to a seated position on the couch. Tashi is notably absent, probably having gone to bed hours ago. 

“Hey,” Art mutters, voice thick with sleep. He rubs his eyes and comes to stand right in front of Patrick. One of them is swaying back and forth.

Art shouldn’t have waited for him. He should have gone to bed with his wife, as exhausted as he probably was. 

“C’mere.”

Strong arms wrap around Patrick’s shoulders, one hand cradling the back of his head softly. He so desperately wants to relax into Art’s embrace, but he continues to just stand there, hands hanging idly by his sides. 

“Everything’s okay, right?” His gentle fingers slide through Patrick’s hair. “Everything’s okay.”

Patrick just squeezes his eyes tight. 

“Let’s go to bed. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.” 

But Patrick can’t . He pushes himself away from Art and shakes his head, creating space between them again. 

He can’t just crawl into bed, the one he has started sharing with the two people he has longed for his entire life. Not when all he can think about are the years he spent alone—both the early years of his childhood and the entirety of his adult life. He’s spent so long craving this affection, but the thought of accepting it right now makes him feel smothered. Prickly. Like his body doesn’t know how to respond to Art’s touch. Or any touch, really. 

He doesn’t want to be comforted. It’s unfamiliar. Daunting. 

“I, um—” his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his throat scratchy. “I think m’gonna sleep in the other room.” 

Lily’s room, when she’s not staying with Tashi’s mom, like she is tonight. Patrick has his own hotel room so the team doesn’t get suspicious, even though he sleeps in their suite most nights anyway, but he doesn’t trust himself to make it there right now. 

“Patrick…” 

“I can’t, Art.”

Art searches his face while Patrick tries to find a focal point to make the room stop spinning. He picks the speck of brown in Art’s right eye, though he’s unsuccessful at steadying himself. 

After a moment, Art simply gives a resigned sigh. “Okay, okay.” He looks like he wants to push it further, but he simply says, “Let me help get you settled, at least.”

Patrick nods, and tries to remember how to move his feet. Art follows close behind him, holding his hands out to make sure Patrick doesn’t fall. Patrick stumbles over to the spare room, narrowly missing the wooden door frame as he goes. 

He shouldn’t have drank so much. He’ll feel like shit tomorrow. 

Art hovers over him as he sits on the bed. He seems to hesitate a little before reaching a gentle hand to brush his hair back. Patrick has to grit his teeth at the feather-light press of Art’s lips to his forehead. 

“Goodnight, Patrick,” Art whispers as he slips the door closed. Patrick swallows against the tightness it puts in his throat.

At least being this drunk comes with one perk—he’s blissfully out-cold the second his head hits the pillow.

Chapter Text

1996 – Darien, Connecticut

For as long as Patrick can remember, he has always felt out of place in his family. Like he’s perpetually stuck outside, watching from a fogged-over window, never actually invited inside to sit down and join them. 

If he didn’t have an identical nose and pair of ears—all slightly too large for his face—and the exact same dark curly hair as his father, he’d be certain that he was switched at birth. That his real family is normal and warm, and actually wants him around. 

But alas, the familial resemblance is too strong to deny. Unfortunately, the physical likeness to his parents is where the resemblance ends. Even from a young age, he failed to see many other similarities between himself and anyone else. 

Maybe he was born too early, and the quintessential Zweig genes never had the chance to develop, and that’s why he feels so out of place? 

He spends a lot of his early childhood trying to figure it out. Eventually though, by the time he reaches eight, nine, ten years-old—he figures it’s best to give up. 

It’s no use. He doesn’t think much would change even if he somehow cracked the code to becoming a Zweig, in more than just name alone.

Even still, he watches his older sister, Maddie—who is eight years his senior—and wonders how she figured it out so easily. She has always been smarter than Patrick; she gets good grades, is a varsity volleyball player, and stays late from school for clubs and practice nearly every day. By any and all standards, she’s a golden child.  

His parents, when they’re actually around, don’t have any problems showering her with attention, encouraging her, or really, giving her anything that she could possibly ask for. They don’t seem to be as strict with her, either. Maybe it’s just because she implicitly knows what they expect of her, unlike Patrick, who has to guess half the time and always comes up wrong anyway. 

And he’s not dumb, okay? When first he turned eight he had a bit of a revelation—that if his parents had another baby right now, he’d probably be confused and a little upset too. So he can’t really blame Maddie for never taking a liking to him.

He also reflects on how his parents are older than the other kids his ages’ parents at school and at the country club, and how the ones that have siblings are definitely closer in age than him and Maddie. 

Some kids joke that he was an accident. He always laughs along, but secretly he thinks they’re right. That his parents got stuck with a kid they didn’t want, and that’s why they don’t like him very much. 

He was behind before he even got a chance to try and catch up. 

From an outside perspective, he can see why other kids might be jealous of him. His parents are richer than God—he lives in a giant marble mansion along the coastline, and he’s always dressed in fancy name-brands and is showing off the newest gadgets. To someone else looking in, he has everything he could ever want. 

If only his classmates knew how jealous he is of them , the ones whose parents come to pick them up from school, or help them with their science projects, or wrap them up in hugs and bring them flowers after the school play. 

The kids whose parents aren’t too busy to spend time with them.

But hey, if his parents are willing to buy him whatever he wants, he may as well take advantage of it, right? Despite everything, he’s always been an optimist at heart. 

It is also at eight years-old that he discovers tennis for the first time. 

He spends the majority of his time after school at the country club, waiting for his nanny, Peggy, to come pick him up before dinner. His mother is usually busy preparing cases or spending long days in court, and his dad had recently been elected into Congress, so he’s hardly in town half the time. Patrick doesn’t even really notice when he’s in Washington D.C. or back in Darien—it’s not like he sees him much either way. 

To keep him occupied and active during the week, or so she says, his mother had scheduled him for every after-school sports program that the club offers. However, little did she know that she’d actually give his short life some semblance of a purpose when she enrolled him in beginners tennis. 

The class is for kids between the ages of seven and twelve, so he’s on the younger side, but even on the first day—when he walks in with a shiny new Wilson tennis racket—he knows in his soul that this is what he is meant to do. 

About a month into the class, he is by far the best player there, even beating out the twelve year-olds. People in his class also seem to actually like him, unlike a lot of the other kids at school. Because he’s good, maybe? Either way, he has finally found a place where he actually feels like he could belong. 

He loves that tennis is an individual sport. That it’s just him, his racket, and the ball on his side of the net. He feels validated, in a way, that he can be alone on the court and still attract the attention of everyone watching.

It doesn’t even matter that his mom is a fancy lawyer, or his dad is a Congressman—when he’s playing tennis, he can hold his own and impress people all by himself. 

He finds that he really enjoys being complimented. Being the center of attention. Impressing people. 

He becomes completely addicted to tennis and the way it offers him everything he feels like he’s been craving the past eight years. 

Every afternoon, when Peggy comes to pick him up, he regales her with stories about how much fun tennis is, or how the other kids are jealous of his serve, because even with the funky way he holds his arm he can always hit the ball exactly where they tell him to. It’s like a game, and he wins every time. 

He tells her that tennis is his favorite part of the day, and that he’s upset he is scheduled to start golf next month instead. 

A few days later, Peggy tells him that her mother enrolled him in only tennis classes for the rest of the year, and that she withdrew him from golf and swimming and badminton and any other stupid sport that the country club offers after school. 

It’s the best news he’s ever heard. 

Sometimes he likes to pretend that Peggy is his mom instead. It’s hard not to, especially when he tells her something, like how much he loves tennis, and then magically he’s enrolled in more classes. He knows that Peggy works for his parents, and that she reports to them about him and Maddie—acting as a link between them—but still. 

Even as his nanny, she’s still a better mother to him than Diane Zweig has ever been. 

She has been with their family since Maddie was born, living on-site in her own separate quarters just off of the main house. When Patrick came along, she practically raised him, filling in the many gaps left by his parents’ packed schedules. 

Peggy is always quick to praise him and give him affection, like running her hands through his hair or giving him hugs. She attends his school open houses and his first tennis tournaments, and she even takes him out for ice cream to celebrate his first win. 

These days, it’s mostly just the two of them in the evenings anyway, now that Maddie is able to drive herself around and stay out late with her friends or at her endless extracurriculars. 

It’s not so bad, really. Peggy makes the huge mansion they live in feel more like a home, and sometimes she lets him come sit with her in her quarters, where they’ll watch TV together or she’ll read while he’ll do his homework. Those nights are his favorites, because her living room feels so cozy and warm, as opposed to the practically unlived-in sterile main house. 

So he keeps playing tennis, and each day he grows to love it more and more, and it gives him a sense of self-assuredness he never really had before. Even with his father berating him to stand up straight and always look people in the eye , he never actually understood what it meant to exude confidence. 

But now, because of tennis, it finally clicks into place. When he plays, he thinks he might start to understand what it’s like to be a Zweig. 

1998

By the time he turns ten, Maddie is getting ready to head off to college—Yale, just like their father—and Patrick has been moved up to the intermediate juniors tennis class. 

There’s no real minimum age, so he’s one of the youngest ones in the class, but it’s really helping him to play with kids more at the same skill-level. His coaches constantly tell him that he has natural talent, that maybe he could even do this for a living. 

It totally goes to his head. 

He makes friends with a couple of boys in the class, just a year or two older than him, and he starts asking Peggy to pick him up from the club later after practice, so they can all hang out in the kids center or by the pool. 

A lot of the time they’ll stay on the courts after practice ends, and just mess around with trick shots or play two-on-two. 

Patrick isn’t quite sure how he feels about playing doubles. Yeah, he enjoys goofing off with his friends, but he doesn't actually like playing with someone else on the court next to him. It goes against the solitary part of the sport that he fell in love with two years ago. 

The guys he mostly hangs out with, Peter, who is eleven, and Jack and Chris, who are twelve, are pretty cool. They go to the same private school as him, but they’re in the next grade up, which is probably why they only met at the club. 

He likes that they aren’t weird about the fact that his dad is kind of famous, like some of the kids in his grade are. They just care that he’s good at tennis and laughs at their raunchy jokes. 

They’ve also helped him expand his vocabulary into something a bit more… colorful . They really like corrupting him, as they call it—which really means teaching his dirty words and sexual innuendos. 

One particular night, when his parents are actually in the near vicinity—attending the End of Summer Bash at the club—their ideas of corruption go a little bit too far. 

The four of them are circled up on the patio of the kids center, crafting a plan to sneak into the pool after-hours. 

Chris, sort of the unofficial leader of the group, is throwing out ideas for the best way to sneak around without arousing suspicion. He argues that the four of them can easily hop the fence to get to the pool. Peter, on the other hand, thinks that they would be better off sneaking into the locker rooms and going through the door that leads straight outside to the pool area. 

“No way, man, we’d have to actually go inside for that. The adults will totally see us and figure us out!” Chris points out. 

“So just tell them you have to piss, dude, easy,” Peter replies. 

“Nuh-uh, I say the less witnesses the better. Back me up, man,” Chris says, giving Jack’s arm a soft punch. 

Jack looks between them, an amused expression on his face. He’s usually down for anything. “I mean,” he says, looking at Chris. “The adults are probably hammered in there. I doubt they’d even notice us. But,” he looks back to Peter, “jumping the fence seems pretty baller.” 

Peter looks at Patrick, who has been notably silent in the plan-making. “What are you thinkin’, Pat?”

Patrick weighs both options. Jumping the fence sounds pretty fun, to be honest, but he appreciates the simplicity of the locker room plan. In the end, he leans towards the exciting option. 

“I vote we hop the fence.” 

“Yes!” Chris exclaims, pumping his fist in victory. “Okay, operation night swim is a go.”

“Night swim? That’s fucking stupid, dude,” Jack ribs.

“Yeah? I don’t hear any of you throwing out other options.”

So the four of them sneak around the building, crouching below the windows outside the ballroom, where the party seems to be in full swing. Patrick catches a glimpse of his dad, totally schmoozing in front of a big crowd of people. Typical. 

The boys all giggle and shush each other as they continue to creep through the bushes, until the pathway opens up to the gated-in pool. There’s a lock on the gate, a giant indicator that the pool is closed for business. 

Standing right in front of it, the fence seems a little higher than he remembered. Not only is he the youngest of the group, he’s also the shortest. The other boys have all started going through puberty and have a few inches on Patrick at least. 

He gulps. Maybe they should have just gone through the locker room after all. 

“What’s wrong, Zweig? Scared?”

“Fuck no, man.”

“Okay, how about you go first then?” Chris slaps his back with a taunting grin. 

He looks from his friends back to the top of the iron gate, trying to work out how to actually get above it. There’s a low rung for his feet to step on to, but he can’t seem to physically swing his leg up high enough to fully clear the top. 

“Here, I’ll give you a boost,” Jack offers, holding his hands together, palms upward, in front of Patrick. 

Part of him wants to fight it, but in the end, he just accepts the help and keeps his lips shut. No need to bring attention to the fact that he’s younger and smaller than them. He’s not going to mess things up with the first real group of friends he’s ever had. 

So he steps into Jack’s hands, and he uses his arms to hoist Patrick up and over the fence. When he lands on the other side he falls on his ass, but he still lets out a laugh in victory. 

His friends cheer and whoop, before remembering that this is a covert mission and quieting down. One by one they fling themselves over the fence and join Patrick on the other side. 

After they all make it in one piece, it’s a race for the four of them to kick off their shoes and sprint to the edge of the pool, not hesitating to jump right into the water, clothes and all. 

The pool lights are out, since it’s after-hours, which makes this whole thing feel even more forbidden. Patrick has a rush of adrenaline at the thought—he’s usually one to follow the rules, but this feels good. Really good. Like he’s on top of the world, like nothing can touch him. 

That is, until one of the security guards catches their sorry asses, shining his flashlight frantically around the pool and directly in their faces. 

It’s not like there’s anywhere they can run. The jig is completely up. 

They lift themselves out of the water, and another guard graciously gives them towels to dry off, while simultaneously collecting their names. A cold, heavy ball of dread settles in his gut at that. 

Great, he’s totally fucked. His parents are going to be pissed . The other boys seem to be in a similar state of worry. 

While his parents are certainly strict and have impossibly high expectations of him—ones that he can never seem to rise up to—he’s never actually done anything wrong. Never broken the rules so overtly before. 

Even when he tries his best to please them, they are still quick to express their disappointment in him. Quick to proactively reprimand, even before he can make a mistake. All to remind him that he’s not truly one of them . 

Sure they can be a bit harsh at times—his father more so than his mother—but overall, he mostly flies under the radar. Their quiet passivity towards him is more than enough to keep him in line. In a choice between being criticized or being ignored, Patrick tends to prefer being ignored. 

After the other boys’ parents have already collected them, his father is the last to come out and get him. He keeps his eyes down at his toes when he sees the disappointed expression on his face. 

“Patrick, put your shoes on and meet your mother in the car,” Richard Zweig says, in a voice that leaves no room for arguments. 

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles, tucking his tail between his legs before following directions. 

While slipping back into his Converse, he overhears his father address the security guard, using his politician voice —not the one he uses on TV or in his speeches, but the one he uses when he’s talking to regular people, when he wants to seem relatable and likable. 

“I do apologize for my son. As a long-time member here, I hope we can count on your discretion regarding his actions. You know how it is,” he laughs, and Patrick feels distinctly like it’s at his expense. 

“Of course, sir,” the security guard replies, shaking his father’s hand tightly. 

“Well, thank you for what you do. It does not go unnoticed by me or my associates.” 

“Thank you, sir. Have a good night.” 

“You as well,” he replies, his smile large enough that the moonlight reflects off his teeth. It’s almost shark-like, how sharp it is. His smile drops as he turns back to Patrick, voice losing any trace of its previous artificial warmth. “Son, what did I say?” 

Patrick hurries to the car, left shoelace still untied. 

His mother is sitting in the passenger’s seat, and as he pulls himself into the back she lets out an exasperated sigh. 

“What on earth were you thinking?”

He doesn’t get a chance to answer before his father slides into the driver’s seat and says, “He wasn’t.” 

Patrick shrinks away from the glare his father shoots him in the rearview mirror. 

“He wasn’t thinking at all,” his father continues, voice hardening with every word. “Not about how this could impact our standing at the club, or our reputation. Not about how this would look for our family, to have the son of a prosecutor start trespassing . God knows he didn’t think about how I’m up for reelection at the end of this year. No, he was only thinking of himself.” 

“I’m sorry—” 

“Save it,” another wicked glare in the mirror. “We will discuss this at home. Until then, you need to actually think about your actions.”

The air conditioning is blasting in the car, seeping right through his drenched clothes and settling deep into his skin. He tries to huddle into the towel, still wrapped around his shoulders, but his body is violently shivering by the time they arrive at the house. 

“Patrick, in my office,” his dad orders the second they walk inside. He spares a glance at his mother, but she simply nods towards the stairs, at his father.

Feet dragging, he follows. 

Normally he is not allowed in his father’s office—he could probably count the number of times he has been in here on one hand. 

Shivers are still wracking his body by the time his father shuts the door and turns his gaze on Patrick, though he doesn't think it's only due to his cold, wet clothes. 

“Do you care to explain what the hell you were thinking?” 

Patrick cringes, his face twisting up guiltily. 

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, not knowing what else to say. 

“Do you understand how embarrassing this behavior is? I am a public figure, Patrick. Everything this family does is examined under a microscope. We cannot afford for you to be acting this way. What about that is so hard for you to understand?” 

He doesn’t have an answer for that. All he wanted to do was go along with what his friends did. Otherwise, his dad is right. He wasn’t thinking about anything else. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. 

Shaking his head, his father pinches the bridge of his nose. A vein starts popping out on his forehead, making him look almost like a cartoon character. 

“You are old enough to know that your actions have consequences,” he eventually says, voice low and ominous.

He gestures to the edge of his large, dark mahogany work desk. 

“Bend over.” 

Patrick startles at that, eyes going wide like a bug.

He hasn’t been spanked in… years? Since he was way younger, at least. He thought he’d outgrown that method of discipline long ago, with his parents opting more towards their scathing words over physical punishment. 

“ Now , Patrick. I won’t ask again.” 

So he goes. Bending at the waist over his father’s desk, feeling like a child that dropped a marker on the rug or left his legos on the floor one too-many times. 

His face tingles with the hot heat of embarrassment as he waits. 

Another moment passes until he hears the unexpected clink of metal on metal—of his father undoing his belt, he realizes, gut going ice cold. He’s heard rumors about parents using a belt as punishment, but he always thought it was a myth to keep kids in line. Or something in old movies. 

Not something he’d ever experience firsthand. 

When his father pulls the waistband of his khaki shorts down to reveal his backside, Patrick knows he fucked up big time. 

The loud smacking sound of leather against his bare skin registers before the sharp ache of it. Once, twice, three times. Five in total. 

The pain is sudden and intense, like he’s being stung by a bee, but then it settles into a burn that spreads around the entire area. He can’t help but whimper when the belt hits over the same spot twice. 

His mouth tastes salty when his father lets him stand back up. Huh , he hadn’t realized that he’d started crying. He sniffles and wipes the evidence away. 

“Now go to your room. Tomorrow, you will help Peggy with the housework while you think about your actions, do you understand me?”

He sniffs again. “Yes, sir.” 

Patrick rushes to the safety of his bedroom and locks himself inside, not knowing what to make of anything. 

Out of all the outcomes he could have anticipated, he never expected his father to react like this . 

He figured the harsh words of disappointment would be the worst of it, then he’d fly under the radar until his next inevitable failure. 

He can’t even decide what’s worse—the smarting ache settling in on his bottom or the humiliating shame of what the fuck just happened. 

He doesn’t let himself cry more than the tears that already escaped, not wanting to give his father the satisfaction of a reaction, even though he’ll never know otherwise. 

All he can think is that his father’s next trip to D.C. can’t come soon enough. 

2000

Something shifted inside Patrick after the pool incident.

A tiny part of his brain, the bit that he never really paid attention to, started craving the rush he felt when provoking his father. Or, not even that, really. He wanted to chase the feeling of freedom—of invincibility—he felt when he broke the rules that first time. 

And if breaking the rules garners a reaction from the impenetrable Richard Zweig, even better. 

From that summer on he starts rebelling. Nothing too crazy, but enough that his parents can’t quite ignore him anymore. He lets go of the idea that if he tries hard enough, maybe his parents will magically start caring about him. Too late for that. 

But even when they are reprimanding him, or telling him what a fucking disappointment he is, or lashing his ass black and blue, he somehow starts to feel validated by their attention. 

No longer is he content with slipping under the radar. No, he wants his parents to know that he’s there, to acknowledge him, and if provoking them is the easier way to do that then so be it. 

In his eyes, negative attention is still attention, at the end of the day. 

Plus after a while, the belt stops being so scary. Especially as it becomes a more frequent player between him and his father. He eventually learns how to grit his teeth and bear it. 

In addition to his new penchant for rule-breaking, his grades also start slipping. Oddly, his mother actually seems to care more about this than his father, but his leash still tightens a bit. 

His rebellion is forced to a simmer, stifled by his new routine. 

He still goes from school to the club for tennis—where he’s now in the advanced junior class, in addition to private lessons with a coach—but the second that practice ends he’s immediately picked up by Peggy. No more social time. 

He’s then forced to sit at the table and do his homework while Peggy prepares dinner. Whatever he doesn’t finish before dinner, he has to complete before he’s allowed to go upstairs to his room.

Sometimes, when she makes it home early enough, his mother won’t even let him leave the table until she sees for herself that his work is completed. He feels like he’s on total lockdown. 

By the time he finally finishes sixth grade, his grades have improved enough that his mother is satisfied and his leash is loosened again. Patrick feels restless with the need to get out of the house, to see his friends. 

To do something reckless. 

At the start of the summer, his father organizes a fundraising event for his constituents—he’s up for reelection again —that he’s holding at the club. He says it’s to let the people of Fairfield County get to know him, but Patrick sees right through that bullshit. 

He knows that he just plays the part of a down-to-earth politician, when all he really wants is to feed his own ego and broaden his ever-growing network of connections. 

To keep up with the charade of being a family-man, Patrick is forced to attend the event. Even Maddie takes a day off from the job she’s working in a fancy cancer research lab for the summer. Just to help Richard Zweig show off his two children and loving wife—a perfect model for the nuclear family. 

The thought almost makes Patrick puke all over the polo shirt he’s shoved into.

The four of them pile into his father’s Mercedes, and drive the short distance to the club. Maddie hasn’t even acknowledged him all day—she’s too busy looking at her fucking manicure to give him a spare glance. 

Whatever. It’s not like they’ve ever been close. Patrick just settles for looking out the window, watching the houses slowly get smaller and closer together the further they get into town. 

When they arrive at the club, Patrick unbuckles his seatbelt and moves to open the door, but his father freezes him with a no-nonsense call of his name. 

“Patrick—a word, before we head in?” He looks to his mother and sister, and adds, “We’ll only be a moment.” 

They both exit the car, and Patrick watches their flowy, color-coordinated dresses flutter behind them as they walk through the parking lot. 

“Now, I don’t think I need to tell you that this event is of the utmost importance, do I?”

“No, sir,” he mumbles. 

“So you understand that your mother and I expect you to be on your best behavior tonight, correct?”

He nods, looking to the side.

“What was that?”

He sighs. “Yes, sir.”

“This little rebellious streak is not going to end well for you, if it continues. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now let’s go. It’s rude to keep people waiting.” 

The beginning of the event is a lot of photos—pictures with the four of them, his two parents, then just him and Maddie, then Maddie and their mom, their dad and Patrick—all combinations of each family member. His cheeks ache by the time he’s finally allowed to pick over the table of finger-foods. 

He fills up a plate with some little cocktail weenies and cheesy biscuits, then heads outside. As far as he knows, his job is done until his father makes his big speech at the end of the night, when he’s expected to stand up on stage with the rest of his family like he actually belongs. 

He’s stoked to see Peter and Chris outside—Jack’s family unfortunately moved to Texas last year—and he makes his way over to their table. Peter’s parents are also lawyers, and Chris’s are doctors, so they’re all the exact people that Richard Zweig wants to rub elbows with and proudly call neighbors. 

“There he is! The prodigal son finally joins us,” Chris boisterously says when Patrick flops into a chair.

“Shut the fuck up, you don’t even know what that means,” Patrick retorts around the entire cocktail weenie he shoves in his mouth. 

“Fuck you. I feel like we haven’t gotten to hang out in years, dude.”

“God, my mom has been on my ass about my grades. Fuck—I’m so glad school is over so we can actually hang outside of practice again.” 

“That’s fucking rough bro, but last least you’re free now,” Peter sympathizes. 

Chris nods in agreement, and a twisted smirk forms on his face. “We should celebrate the start of summer tonight. It’ll be a new era, fellas.”

“ Fuck yes,” Patrick agrees. He’s in desperate need of some excitement. 

The three of them plot—much like they had at the End of Summer Bash two years ago—throwing out ideas for the most fucked-up thing they think they can feasibly get away with. 

Clearly no one remembers that they did not get away with sneaking in the pool, but that’s neither here nor there.

None of the ideas stick. That is, until Patrick cockily bets that they could steal a golf cart without getting caught. 

“Hell yeah, dude! My dad taught me how to drive one last year, we can totally take one for a joyride,” Chris says. 

The plan they come up with goes like this: Peter will stay inside the party, hovering around the snack table, keeping watch to ensure that none of the adults become suspicious of them. Plus, it sort of gives them an alibi, because if one of them is around, surely the other two are close by too. 

Chris will serve as the distraction for the valet attendant. He’ll go up to him and ask for his father’s keys, because he left his jacket in the car. But since his parents used the valet, he doesn’t know where the car actually is. He’ll ask kindly if the attendant can show him where the car is, so he can retrieve his jacket without having to bother his father. 

Once Chris’s part is set in motion, Patrick will sneak into the valet cabinet, where the club keeps the keys for their rentable golf carts, and snag a set. He’ll then head to the little parking lot where they line up all the carts, and drive it to the start of the golf course—nowhere in view of the party but close enough that Peter and Chris can easily meet up with him. 

Then they’ll start their joyride. 

It’s flawless, really. Air-tight. They all agree. 

They wait until after the sun is about to set, hoping to use the darkness of nighttime to their advantage. 

Then, it’s go-time. 

Peter and Chris take their positions, and Patrick hides against the wall, waiting for the valet attendant to fall into their trap. When he starts walking with Chris toward the line of luxury cars that used the valet, Patrick springs into action. 

He grabs the first set of golf cart keys he sees, then makes like a bandit with his treasure. Easy as can be. He grins at the familiar rush of adrenaline.

He walks casually to the lot, trying not to look suspicious, and then figures out which cart matches his set of keys. 

Cart # 3. 

He finds it easily and starts it up, making sure that no one is around to witness him. When the coast is all clear, he maneuvers into drive and peels away. 

Since Chris knows how to drive one of these he gave Patrick the highlights, but he’s still never done it before. The pedals are more sensitive than he was anticipating. After a few jerky presses of his foot, he thinks he gets the hang of it. 

He tries to remember how to get to their designated meeting spot at the entrance of the course, but he must make a wrong turn somewhere. Somehow, he ends up back at the front of the club, right in view of that same valet attendant. 

Fuck fuck fuck.

He tries to swerve this thing around, but it’s no fucking use. He’s been seen. 

In his head he tries to figure out which would be better: mindlessly driving around hoping no one can catch him, or abandoning the cart and high-tailing it out of here, praying that the guy didn’t get a good enough look at him to point him out as Richard Zweig’s son.

Oh motherfucker.  

His father’s speech . Patrick is sure he’s missed it by now. Fuck fuck fuck he’s so fucking fucked.  

In his state of panic, he picks abandonment. 

He shoves the golf cart into park and starts running for the hills—maybe he can hide behind a tree or something and slowly sneak his way back to the party. 

Yeah, his father will be pissed that he missed the speech, but maybe he won’t know about Patrick’s joyride. Maybe he can still turn this around. 

Of course, nothing goes the way he plans. 

Of course, he gets caught in the end. 

A security guard escorts him to the club manager’s office, where he sits alone, stewing in his anxiety for like ten fucking minutes before the manager enters with Patrick’s father in tow. 

That same vein is popping out of his forehead, and he’s seething with a silent rage that Patrick has never seen before. He can already feel his ass start to ache, anticipating what awaits him at home. 

He’s gonna get it bad tonight, that’s for sure. 

“Now, Congressman, I know that you and your family are loyal members of the Darien Country Club and have been for many years, but as the manager of this establishment I cannot let tonight’s events go unaddressed.” 

“As you shouldn’t. My son’s behavior was inexcusable, and I assure you will be corrected.” He says the last part very pointedly. 

Patrick gulps and sinks down in his chair. 

“In any other circumstance, this would result in membership termination. But again, we here appreciate your loyalty, and as a key member of this community we’d ultimately hate to sever ties with your family. In lieu of that, I think the best course of action is to suspend your son’s club access indefinitely.” 

Suspend his access… indefinitely?  

His stomach drops to his feet. That means he can’t play tennis here anymore. Can’t spend the summer with Peter and Chris. 

Shit… where the fuck else is he supposed to go for the next three months? He can’t just stay at home. He stops listening as his father and the manager discuss things further until his father stands beside him, towering over him. 

“Well I appreciate your sensitivity given this situation. Please, if there is anything my wife or I can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask. As for my son here, I think your plan is more than generous.” 

“Yes, sir,” the manager says, as he also stands to usher them back out to the foyer. Patrick’s father rests a hand on his shoulder—not comforting, not guiding, but warning —and squeezes so hard that Patrick worries that he’ll have fingerprints down to his bones. 

He leads Patrick back to the car, where his mom and sister are waiting. The ride back is dead silent, air buzzing with tension. 

When they pull up the winding path to the house, his dad cuts the engine. Patrick gets a spine-tingling sense of deja vu when he instructs his mom and Maddie to get out of the car. 

This isn’t right. Normally they go to his office for this. 

His father sits in silence, letting Patrick fester in dread and guilt and downright fear. His palms start to sting with nervous sweat. 

He can’t take it anymore. “Dad, I’m sor—”

“How fucking dare you say that to me?” He yells, voice cold as ice and harder than Patrick has ever heard it. “Do you have any idea how despicable your actions were tonight? How humiliating it is to have to pick up after you like this? You think your apology is worth anything to me at this point?”

Patrick doesn’t know what to say to that. His father doesn’t seem to appreciate his silence. 

He gets out of the car and circles his way around the back to Patrick’s door. Patrick thinks that maybe his father plans to do it here, with him bent over the seat? He’s already resigning himself to it when the door is thrown open beside him and Patrick is forcibly ripped from the car. 

He lands hard on the gravel driveway, scraping the entire right side of his body when he slides a few feet from the force of being thrown to the ground. 

He barely has a chance to recover from getting the wind knocked out of him before there’s a swift kick to his gut. 

He coughs violently from the pain and tries to curl in on himself in an instinct to protect his belly, bringing his arms up to shield his head. Strong hands reach down to curl tight around his forearms, and his father yanks him back up into an upright position like he weighs nothing. 

He’s trying to catch his breath, but the air keeps getting lodged in his throat. 

“After everything we do for you, this is how you repay us? By making a mockery out of me in front of our neighbors?” He spits, before dropping Patrick’s left forearm and bringing his palm down against his cheek with an ear-splitting slap . 

The momentum from the hit brings Patrick flying back toward the ground. 

He curls up again, desperately clutching at his cheek, trying to protect himself from another kick, but his father just looks at him with so much disdain in his eyes that Patrick hardly recognizes him. 

“You’re a disgrace.” 

Then he simply turns away and heads toward the house, as if Patrick isn’t still choking on his breaths and curled up in a ball against the gravel. 

It takes everything in him not to cry—after that first night with the belt he swore to himself that he’d never cry because of his father ever again. 

He blames the wetness of his cheeks on the physical pain. Nothing more. 

He’s not sure how long he lays there, but eventually he forces himself onto his knees, then up to his feet. His head spins a little, and he can’t quite straighten up all the way, and his cheek is burning, and his mouth kinda tastes like blood, but he somehow gets mostly upright. 

Stand up straight, Patrick . 

He spits on the gravel and runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek. Yep, there it is . The characteristic taste of iron and the sharp sting of a cut. His cheek must have caught on his teeth. 

After hobbling over to the front door, he’s shocked to fight that it’s fucking locked. 

He tries again, thinking he must be mistaken, but nope. No luck. 

His father fucking locked him out. He beat the shit out of him, then locked him out.  

Is he in shock? He might be in shock. 

He’s not even consciously aware that he starts trailing around the side of the house and trying all the doors, feeling like a fucking stray dog begging to be let inside, until he’s standing at the entrance to Peggy’s quarters. 

She lets him in, obviously, and he lets her fuss over him and clean him up, and he doesn’t say anything about what happened. He must ask if he can sleep there, because next thing he knows, she’s tucking him in on the sofa, rubbing her soothing fingers through his hair. 

And that almost makes him cry. But he stays strong, and eventually he falls asleep. 

* * * 

The first thing he thinks when he wakes up is: ouch. He feels sore everywhere, but especially over his belly and his left cheek. There are bandages over his right elbow and palm. He presses a tentative finger against his face, flinching at the unmistakable sting of a bruise. 

The second thing he thinks is: this isn’t his room. It’s not until he looks around and realizes where he is that everything from last night comes back to him. 

It honestly feels like a really fucked up dream at first. He pokes his cheek again. Nope, not a dream. 

Peggy is nowhere to be seen. After a moment of contemplation, Patrick risks getting up and trying the doors to the house again. Unlike last night, when he tries the side door that leads directly to the kitchen, he’s successful. 

Peggy and his mother are huddled together at the table, both going quiet as he enters. His mother has a subtle look of disappointment on her face, but it feels like a warm hug compared to the fiery disdain in his father’s eyes last night. He watches her eyes dart to the bruise he’s sure is on his face, and they soften ever-so-slightly.  

Peggy looks cautious, maybe a little sad. 

“Patrick, honey, come sit down,” Peggy says. 

Slowly, he does. 

“Patrick,” his mother starts. “This stunt last night was a very bad look. Now, you know how I feel about your grades, and I know that you and your father have had some… differences, lately,” she shakes her head. “Something’s got to give.”

He can tell that she tries to go easy on him when she tells him, “There’s a school in Virginia. A boarding school. Peggy actually found it—it’s called the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy—and they’ve agreed to enroll you in the upcoming year. I know that you enjoy tennis, and this is an excellent school for academics, as well. Very prestigious.”

“What? What about my school now?” 

“I don’t think this school is the best environment for you. And I think those boys at the club are a bad influence. With your behavior over the past few years…” she trails off. “It’s already official, your father put down a deposit this morning.” 

As usual, she leaves no room for him to argue. He simply hangs his head low and mutters a yes, ma’am . 

When his mother leaves the kitchen, Peggy rubs gentle circles on his back. 

“Your father was talking about military school, dear. I had to do a lot of convincing for him to agree that this school would be better for you.”

Embarrassingly, he starts to sniffle. 

“It will be good for you,” she soothes. “You’ll get to play tennis every day at this school, and you’ll love the warmer winters in Virginia, honey. And…” she lowers her voice, until it’s a soft whisper.  “I’ve seen how you and your father butt heads lately. We need to get you out of here before things get worse. We don’t want what happened last night to happen again, right? I know that this is what’s best for you.”

He supposes that going to a school where he can play tennis is definitely better than fucking military school, but all Patrick hears is that his family is getting rid of him. That he finally poked the bear hard enough, and now he’s getting rehomed like a naughty puppy. 

He wipes his eyes, making sure no rogue tears escape, but he forgot about the bruise swelling up on his left cheek. It smarts when he rubs against it, reminding him just how much he and his father butt-heads.  

Maybe Peggy is right. Maybe getting away won’t be such a bad thing after all.

Chapter Text

September 9, 2019 – New York City

Patrick is brutally awoken by the sound of a chainsaw grating in his fucking skull. There’s a pounding in his temples so severe that, for a brief moment, makes him fear he might actually be dying. 

Serves him right for practically drinking himself into a coma. 

Groaning, he tries to burrow his head into the pillow, desperately needing to stifle the noise. The movement jostles his stomach around though, enough that the nausea rising in his throat becomes a more pressing issue. 

He barely makes it to the bathroom before promptly puking his fucking guts out.

Of course it had to be fucking tequila . 

Good stuff , his ass. Doesn’t matter how easily that shit goes down—coming back up it will always be a bitch. 

He heaves forcefully for God-knows how long. Maybe he’s in limbo, and time has fully ceased to exist while he atones for all the past sins of his life. He may as well be, because every time he thinks he’s finally done, that there’s no way anything could still be in his stomach, he starts heaving all over again. 

At some point, Art comes into the bathroom with a glass of water and his toothbrush from their room, but doesn’t stay. He’s always been an acts of service guy, even when they were kids. 

When they first moved into their academy dorm room together, they didn’t immediately hit it off. Two fresh-faced twelve year-old boys, forced to share a tiny living space for the first time, miles away from their previous lives. The first few months were awkward, until they finally warmed up to each other.

Patrick can’t even explain how they became close. In the early months they tended to gravitate toward each other outside of their room, finding solace in being around a familiar face, but it really wasn’t a seamless transition by any standards. 

Looking back, it seems like one day they were acquaintances, forced by proximity, then the next they were inseparable. As if they’d never lived without each other at all. As if a switch had flipped in their hearts, without either of them realizing that their rhythms had synced. 

But if Patrick had to pick one specific instance, one miniscule and inconsequential example of when he realized that Art might have been more than just his roommate, he knows what he’d choose. 

It was just before their first Thanksgiving break, a few days before they were scheduled to return home for the first time since starting at Mark Rebellato. Patrick had been moody–-mostly because he was dreading going home, but partly because he’d tried to shoot his shot with Ashley Holloway and she turned him down spectacularly. 

He spent days moping and lashing out, completely leaning into the pre-teen angst. But then, the night before his and Art’s flights to their respective hometowns, he found a Twix bar and a blue Gatorade on his pillow. His favorites.

Art blushed and stammered when he confronted him about it, muttering about how he could tell Patrick was stressed and he wanted him to feel better. It still makes Patrick’s gut go warm, thinking about how sweet Art looked in that moment. 

The kicker, in Patrick’s opinion, is that he doesn’t think he’d ever told Art what his favorite candy or his favorite flavor of Gatorade was. The fact that he noticed, all on his own, and actively tried to cheer Patrick up with his favorite snacks… it touched him. Deeply. 

No one had ever done anything like that for him. It made him feel seen, feel known . In his haste of gratitude, he threw himself at Art, nearly tackling him to the ground in a giant bear hug. When Art merely giggled and hugged him back, it clicked into place for Patrick—that Art was special, someone he wanted to keep close. 

After that, the walls between them crumbled down rapidly, and he did his very best to make sure that Art felt appreciated too. 

Even now, almost twenty years and a fuckton of baggage later, Patrick still sees traces of that sweet little kid, simply trying to make his friend feel better. 

After a few blessed moments of quiet relief from dry-heaving, Patrick forces himself to take sips of the water, but it still takes multiple attempts before he’s finally able to keep anything down. 

He stays hunched over the toilet, drenched in a sickly sheen of sweat, until he’s confident he can probably function like an actual human being again. His head is still pounding—like there’s a band wrapped around his temples that just keeps getting tighter and tighter—but the rolling in his stomach has finally subsided to the background. 

What he really wants is to take a shower, to wash the stench of stale alcohol out of his pores, but honestly it sounds too fucking exhausting right now. 

In the end, he settles for brushing his teeth (twice) and splashing cold water over his face and down his neck. He purposefully does not look at himself in the mirror, afraid to see a ghost staring back at him. 

And that’s what he hates the most, right now—that he can only blame a part of how he feels on the tequila. It makes him sick all over again, knowing that his family still has the ability to affect him like this. 

At the core of it all, he fucking hates his father and is glad that he’s gone. Good fucking riddance. 

But what Patrick doesn’t understand is why all these complicated feelings didn’t die with him. Why is Patrick burdened with clearing out the cobwebs that his father left behind? Why does he even care, when his father clearly couldn’t be bothered to give a single fuck about Patrick? 

Why is someone, who he hasn’t seen or thought about in four fucking years, still able to hold this much power over him, even in death?

The fact that he’s feeling the way that he does—even if he can’t quite put a name to it—is so insanely confusing, it makes his head spin all over again. 

He wasn’t—isn’t—ready to deal with the tangle of emotions and confusion and unresolved shit. 

Not yet. Not now . Not when his life is finally turning around. When he finally started to feel like he’s standing on solid ground, after years lost at sea. 

It’s almost fucking poetic. He wishes he could appreciate the irony of it—how life never lets him have anything resembling happiness for long—but he’s never been one for melodrama. 

In the kitchen, the roaring chainsaw that woke him up starts again—the blender, his now-awake brain helpfully supplies. Tashi’s not-so-subtle way of telling him that it’s time to get the fuck up, that he can’t hide behind his hangover forever. 

He allows himself to take one more moment of weakness, then he slowly makes his way to the kitchen, knowing he’s only putting off the inevitable at this point. 

Why does it feel like he’s on his way to his execution?

He sees Art first, sitting at the head of the table with a folded-over newspaper in one hand and a small generic white coffee cup in the other. If this were any other morning, Patrick would joke about how well he’s already settling into retirement like an old man, or come up from behind and wrap his arms around him. 

But it isn’t a normal morning, so he simply watches from the entryway. The familiar itch of feeling like an outsider tickles at him—something he hasn’t felt since before New Rochelle, and doesn’t know what to make of now. 

Art catches sight of him and perks up in his chair, setting the newspaper down on the table. 

“Hey. Feeling any better?”

Patrick cringes a little, embarrassed. He gives a small nod.

“Yeah,” he lies. “Thanks for the water.” Ugh . His throat sounds fucked. 

After a beat of hesitation, he goes to sit down at the table, dropping into the second chair to Art’s right. Still maintaining a safe distance between them. 

Art gets this contemplative look on his face, like he’s trying to decide whether or not he wants to say something. Patrick has seen that face so many times from their years as roommates, so he knows—from the way the right corner of his mouth purses inward—that Art is worried Patrick won’t like whatever it is he’s gearing up to say. 

But before Art works himself up to speaking, Tashi approaches with a sludgy green smoothie and something cupped in the palm of her hand. She sets the smoothie down in front of Patrick, along with two white tablets, then seats herself directly across from him at the table.

“Drink,” she orders, leveling him with an unimpressed arch of her brow. 

Patrick stares at the questionable brown flecks floating in the glass, and looks back at Tashi with a dubious expression. 

She softens, just a touch. “It’ll help with your hangover. The ibuprofen, too.” 

And look, in the light of the morning he knows that he… maybe overreacted a tad last night. But in the heat of the moment he couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by everything , including their presence and their quiet searching gazes. Couldn’t stomach the idea of accepting comfort from them. 

Honestly, despite the lingering traces of unease, he can admit that he appreciates her efforts to tend to him now. Both of their efforts. 

It’s been a long time since he’s been taken care of. 

There’s a small, nagging part of him that is blaring alarm bells, yelling danger! danger! danger!

But a larger part of him wants nothing more than to give in and fall into Art’s or Tashi’s arms and let himself be coddled. 

Just add it to the tangled mess of competing feelings knotting around in his chest. 

So he listens to the more prominent voice in his head, and swallows the pills, chasing it with a sip of the smoothie. Wanting to be good for them, like they are for him. 

He regrets that immediately, when he’s hit with a bitter tang that may as well be fucking mud. He barely suppresses a gag. 

Somehow, the consistency of the smoothie—which is a fucking generous way to describe the glass of biohazard waste—is slimy and chalky all at once, in a way that cannot be safe for human consumption. 

He chokes it down and sputters out a cough. 

“Jesus Christ, Tashi,” he rasps. She just raises her eyebrow again, looking pointedly at the glass. 

Art clears his throat. Patrick looks over to him, assessing his sympathetic and slightly amused expression. 

“You get used to it, after a while.” 

“Great,” Patrick grits out between his teeth, as he gears himself up to take another drink. His eyes start fucking watering because it’s so terrible. 

Art goes back to his newspaper—though from the way he’s sparing frequent glances at Patrick, he can tell that he is distracted—while Patrick struggles to drain his cup, focusing all of his mental energy on psyching himself up to swallow. 

At least Art was somewhat right; he stops gagging about halfway through, even though the taste never gets better. The texture somehow gets worse . 

Tashi, who has been scrolling on her phone across from him, suddenly looks up at him with a determined glint in her eye. She sets her phone face-down on the table and studies Patrick for a beat, squinting her eyes in that way she does when she knows she’s in control of the situation and wants you to know it too. 

“Patrick,” she starts. Already, he can tell that soft, domestic Tashi is no longer who he is dealing with. This is Coach Tashi. Manager Tashi. 

The strong, no-nonsense tone of her voice simultaneously makes him want to sit up straight and also hunch further into his chair to make himself smaller.

He settles for looking up at her, and maintaining reluctant eye contact, trying to hide how nervous she’s making him.

“Our announcement that I’d coach you came at a bad time. The added publicity to you complicates this situation significantly.”

“This… situation,” he repeats slowly. 

“News outlets are latching onto it. Making it a thing. It’s being picked up way more than we were anticipating.”

“Right.”

She sends a quick glance to Art, the only indication that Tashi is hesitant to say the next part to him. She barrels on—never one to beat around the bush. 

“I’ve already been contacted about a statement, since you’ve been unavailable directly.”

He physically recoils at that. “No. No fucking way am I making a statement. Over my dead fucking body.”

In the corner of his peripheral vision, Patrick sees Art shift in his seat. Tashi continues looking at him, unbothered by his outburst. All calm lines and absolute composure. 

“Okay. I’m not forcing you to.” He lets out a breath. “What about the funeral?”

“What about it?” He asks, defensive all of a sudden. 

“Are you going to go?”

He’s hit with a sense of deja vu from the conversation he had with his sister last night, and that, paired with Tashi’s unyielding stare, has him feeling like a cornered animal. Like he’s one probing question away from showing his teeth and biting . 

Swallowing the urge to tell her to fuck off, like he wants to, he simply looks down at his smoothie. Eyeing the way the layers separate the longer it sits undisturbed. 

Maybe there’s a metaphor there, hidden in the depths of the glass. 

Probably not. 

What he really wants right now is a cigarette. If only he hadn’t chain-smoked his entire pack last night in his weird fugue state. His frayed nerves are itching for the calming cover of nicotine.

“Look, Patrick. I know you don’t want to hear this. I get it, I really do. But I think it’s in your best interest to go.” 

His head shoots up. He couldn’t even hide the look of betrayal on his face if he tried. 

“When the fuck has it ever been in my best interest to be near my family?” 

The vitriol laced in his voice even startles him , but once the words settle around them he’s left with a heady dose of shame. 

It’s not like any of this is Tashi’s fault. He knows that she’s just doing her job, that she’s just the messenger—and that he’s making it exceptionally difficult right now. He doesn’t want to take it out on her. 

Plus, he also knows that—unless Art has told her—she doesn’t actually know about Patrick’s complicated family life. Other than the fact that they’re not really close, which is an understatement, to say the least. 

But he never let her believe anything different. She never met them, even when they were dating. He can’t blame her for not knowing what she’s asking of him.

She continues looking at him, completely unphased. It fills him with a deep discomfort; he feels almost like he’s a petulant child having a temper tantrum. Which is honestly very fitting, given the forcefully unearthed childhood trauma making itself known to him after years of repression. 

“The media has really latched on to this, which sucks, Patrick. It does. No matter how you feel about your father, it’s still disgusting for outlets to be reporting on a potentially-grieving family member like this. Even in the best scenarios, which this clearly fucking isn’t. But you heard the news last night—people are speculating about you being estranged, or whatever. They see a story there.”

This time, Patrick is the one shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He starts tapping his fingers against the table. Running his knuckles against the condensation on the glass. Jerking his knee up and down in a rapid rhythm. Anything to diffuse the anxious energy buzzing through his veins.

“We need to consider the optics here. And honestly, it will bring up more questions and speculation if you don’t go. But, we can also spin this in your favor. If you go to the funeral, play the part of the grieving son, ask for privacy, all that shit… we can appease the media a bit, maybe even garner some sympathy. Hopefully things will calm down until you come out swinging next season.

“But if you don’t go, the vultures will latch on. They already smell blood around this. People won’t move on quickly from a somewhat public figure not showing up to his politician father’s funeral. It will only cause people to speculate more, start rumors… it will follow you around for years, Patrick. The easiest way out is to go.”

The force of his bouncing knee practically has his entire body jerking on the chair. He forces in a deep, frustrated breath, letting it out through his nose. Starts chewing on his bottom lip, hard enough to taste blood. 

What Tashi is saying makes sense. It does. It’s just… he doesn’t fucking like it. 

Art clears his throat again. Patrick shifts his eyes to glance over at him, but he finds that he’s once again having the same problem with looking at Art that he did last night. 

He knows too much—Patrick can’t handle being seen like that right now, not when he’s already feeling backed into a corner. 

He focuses his gaze on the swirling grains of wood at his fingers instead. 

“And, uh,” Art starts, “it might get you some closure, Pat.”

Patrick simply shuts his eyes and pushes out another harsh breath. 

He doesn’t need fucking closure . No, he thinks he got enough closure when his dad looked him in they eye and said he’d fucking kill him if he ever saw him again. 

Can’t get much more closure than that. 

He folds his hands together along the table and rests his forehead over them. A lot of the fight has drained out of him, leaving him feeling like an exposed nerve—completely raw and oversensitive.

“Do I even have a choice?” 

“Of course you do,” Art replies, while Tashi answers with a more diplomatic, “No one is forcing you to do anything.”

A tense beat passes before Tashi speaks again, voice incrementally softer.

“Just think it over, okay? We don’t have to make a decision today. But we do have to make one, Patrick.” 

He feels Tashi’s delicate fingers run over the nape of his neck once, just a fleeting comforting gesture, before her light footsteps retreat towards the bedroom. 

Keeping his head against his hands on the table, he asks Art, “Is she always like that?”

The sound of Art sliding into the chair next to him makes him lift his head. Art reaches out and traces his hairline, pushing strands of hair back behind his ear. He can’t help but hum at the feeling.

“Yeah. Coach Tashi can be a little intense, at first. But she’s just looking out for you. She cares. Taking care of things like this is just one of the ways she shows it.”

“Hmm.”

“I never told her anything, you know.”

He jerks out of Art’s gentle caress, nearly sliding out of his chair in the process. That prickly feeling of vulnerability slams back into him full-force, swirling dangerously in his gut. 

Or maybe the half-smoothie he drank is threatening to make another appearance. 

Either way, he is gripped, once again, with the need to be anywhere but here. To get out of Art’s knowing presence. 

After the night that Art saw what his father could do, they never spoke a word of it again. It has remained a silent understanding between the two of them—that Patrick’s family is not to be discussed. Why does this change anything? Just because his father is dead doesn’t mean Patrick is suddenly okay with unpacking everything. 

He pushes himself up to standing. “Right,” he sniffs.

“Look,” Art sighs, “I just meant that she doesn’t know. But… it might help to talk about it.”

Nope nope nope, definitely not. 

What will help is letting him fucking forget anything ever happened. He was doing just fine a week ago, living in his little bubble of repression and denial. 

“I’m, uh—” he points to the main bedroom, avoiding looking Art in the eyes. “I’m gonna go take a shower.” 

I need to get away from you right now, before you see all my secret parts, before you force me say something I can’t take back. 

“Oh.” Art gets that fucking kicked puppy look on his face, the one that hurts Patrick’s heart to look at. Even more so knowing that he put it there. “Yeah, of course.” 

Without another word, he does what he does best, and runs away. He doesn’t want to make it worse . 

He doesn’t even spare a glance toward Tashi, where she’s sitting in the plush chair by the window with her laptop. Beelining to the bathroom, he locks himself in. 

At least the hot water helps him focus on his body, rather than the confusing mess of emotions pinging around his chest. All that matters are the points where the high-pressure shower head pounds against his shoulders.

And when the steam fills the room, he doesn’t even have to worry about his own reflection waiting for him against the glass. 

* * *

After his long shower, Patrick finds that the hot water completely seeped any traces of his remaining energy down the drain. He’s barely able to slide a pair of boxers up his legs before he promptly falls asleep in the large king bed. 

The pillow he collapses on smells like Tashi’s shampoo—sweet honey and amber. 

She had vacated the bedroom by the time he got out of the shower, which normally he’d be bummed about—always one to take advantage of being naked in a room with her. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of vulnerability still gripping him tight. 

He’s glad she gave him privacy, intentional or not. 

When he wakes from his nap, he’s painfully groggy. He’s not a big nap guy in general, since they usually make him feel worse anyway, and unfortunately this is no exception. 

His headache has returned with a vengeance and his brain feels foggy, like his skull has been drilled open and stuffed with cotton. 

At least his nausea has completely subsided, but now his stomach cramps painfully with hunger. The smoothie was hardly what he would call filling .

All the hollowness in his stomach serves to do is remind him of more parts of his life that he doesn’t want to unpack. How he spent years empty, in more ways than one. 

Hungry, lonely, unfulfilled. 

Unseen, unmissed, unloved. 

While he struggles to come to, he looks around the room for hints about how long he slept. He notices that the curtains have been drawn, blocking light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s also a throw blanket covering him, which he doesn’t think was there when he fell asleep. 

God, he doesn’t know what to make of all this—this tenderness . 

He almost feels like he’s being handled with kid gloves. Or like he’s a bomb, one that Art and Tashi are trying to diffuse without setting off an explosion. And he gets it. Really. 

The problem, he thinks, is that it flips some switch in his subconscious that makes him aware of something being wrong , when he wants nothing more than to ignore, ignore, ignore. By treating him with this gentleness, it’s like they’re forcing him to acknowledge the situation. 

Which circles back around to him feeling ashamed . 

Because he doesn’t want to think about how his father belittled him, or threatened him, or hit him. Or how his mother was cold and detached, standing idly by and letting everything happen. Or how his sister treated him more like a nuisance than a brother. 

All these things… he’s moved on from. Or at least, he told himself he did. 

Did he ever actually process any of it? Or did he just shove it into a box to never be thought about again? 

It’s a daunting realization that makes ice flood his veins, catch in his lungs. He’s not ready to process it. 

Maybe he really is acting like a petulant child, and Art and Tashi are right to coddle him. 

As he moves to sit up on the edge of the bed, his eyes catch on his phone. Still where he left it last night, powered off and plugged-in on the nightstand. 

Knowing he can’t avoid it forever, he turns it on with a reluctant sigh. After a moment his home screen floods with notifications of missed calls and a few texts, mostly from his mother and Maddie. Such a painfully unfamiliar sight. 

He swipes his finger to clear the notifications, but his eyes catch one particular message from his sister.

maddie (10:57 pm): Wake will be Saturday at 2 at the house. Funeral will be Sunday at 9 in town. We’re expecting to see you there. 

Not hope to see you there , or please be there , or we miss you Patrick, come home . 

Just a detached message, as if he’s confirming a fucking dentist’s appointment. As if all he is to his family is an obligation, simply because he happens to share a last name. 

After all these years it shouldn’t cut as deep, but against all odds it fucking does. 

He sets his phone back down on the nightstand and rubs his eyes, pressing hard on his brow bone to relieve some of the pressure from his headache. 

Back in the bathroom, he takes a piss and swallows another round of ibuprofen. After dressing in a pair of athletic shorts and one of Art’s red crewneck Stanford sweatshirts, he drags his feet out to the main living space. 

Art is spread on the couch reading a book, with Tashi sitting demurely beside him still working on her laptop. They both look up at him as he approaches. 

God, he loves them so much, and seeing their downturned, concerned faces fills him with so much guilt he nearly stumbles over his feet. 

It’s his fault that the mood is sour, when they should still be basking in Art’s win. His fault that the air is filled with something so somber, rather than celebratory. They don’t deserve this.

Or, rather, he doesn’t deserve them. For a brief moment, he thinks that maybe they actually were better off without him. 

The thing about Patrick, though, is that he’s selfish. Even if that were the case, which realistically he knows it’s not, he’s not willing to give them up. Even if he’s hurting them too. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, for lack of anything else to say.

“Hey, no. C’mon, man, you have nothing to be sorry for,” Art says, dog-earing his page and setting his book beside him. 

“I just… I dunno. Felt like I needed to say it.”

“Well, you don’t,” Tashi reiterates, while also setting her computer aside. 

“You hungry?” Art asks. “We ordered food for when you got up.”

Patrick sucks his lips inside his teeth, giving a small nod. 

“Here, sit. I’ll get it for you.” 

With that, Art heads to the kitchen and Patrick perches uncomfortably on the couch. 

Tashi surprises him by saying, in a gentle voice, “I’m sorry that you’re going through all this, Patrick. And I’m sorry if you felt like I was trying to push you this morning.”

Christ, how pathetic has he been acting for Tashi to feel like she has to apologize to him? An embarrassed flush starts heating his cheeks. 

Tashi surprises him even further by nudging him to sit up and subsequently lowering herself sideways on his lap. Her strong, yet delicate hands come up and frame either side of his face, forcing him to look at her, into her endless brown eyes. 

“We are here for you. To support you. As your friends, as your partners, as your team—whatever way you need us, you have us.”

Rather than focus on how her words make his eyes sting and his throat burn, he tries to tease, “Does Art know you’re speaking for him?”

A knowing smile raises the corner of her mouth. “Of course he does. He’s nearly bursting out of his skin, you know, trying to figure out what he can do to help you.” 

Patrick feels his own barely-there twitch of a smile. “Yeah, he’s always been like that. Such a mother hen.”

“ Such a mother hen,” Tashi agrees with a huff. “You should see him when Lily gets sick.”

“Oh, I can imagine.”

Tashi soothes her thumbs of the apples of Patrick’s cheeks while her fingers scratch above his ears. He can’t help but turn his head and plant a light kiss to her palm. 

“But really… What can we do? What do you need?”

He swallows, forcing down the lump in his throat. Art comes back then, setting a large bowl of what smells like sesame chicken down on the coffee table, before taking a seat flush against Patrick’s side. 

Art’s hands come up around the back of his neck, and he starts kneading the knots tangled up in his traps. Eyes slipping closed, head resting harder against Tashi’s palm, Patrick lets himself be held. Comforted.

Lets himself believe that it’s okay to want this. That he’s not empty anymore. 

With a steadying breath, he opens his eyes and looks between them.

“What you said this morning, Tashi… It makes sense. I don’t want this to follow me around for years. So I’ll go. But I—I want you, both of you, to come with me.”

They both blink at him, eyes going wide, like they can’t believe what he’s saying. 

“To the—the funeral,” he clarifies, dumbly. 

“Of course, Patrick, if that’s what you want?” Tashi says, the words pitching up like a question.

“I… it’s not really about what I want. It’s just about doing what I have to do to get away from this.”

“Okay,” she says, so softly. 

“Okay,” he repeats. 

In a slow, tentative move—so unlike her—Tashi presses a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips. Art leans over and leaves a similar peck against the hinge of his jaw, right beside Tashi’s hand. 

“Okay,” he murmurs again, mostly to himself. Maybe if he says it enough, he’ll start to feel it, too.

Chapter Text

2000 – Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy – Richmond, Virginia

In early August, Peggy and—surprisingly—both of his parents pack up the Mercedes and make the long drive from Connecticut to Virginia to move Patrick in for his first year at Mark Rebellato. 

The drive itself isn’t awful, since he has his GameBoy and his portable CD player to keep himself entertained, but being cramped in the backseat started wearing on him after a few hours. Not to mention the weird undercurrent of tension in the car. 

Honestly, Patrick figured his parents would hire movers and shove him in the back of the truck without a second thought. The fact that they insisted on moving him in themselves makes him a little bit antsy. Waiting for the catch. His mother even requested to take two days off work, which is practically unheard of. 

Despite how none of this quite adds up in his mind, Patrick is still secretly pleased that they both decided to move him in. Maybe they’re finally starting to actually see him as their son, rather than some random kid who lives in their house. Or— used to live in their house, he supposes. 

After that awful night of his father’s fundraising event—the night that sealed his fate for being sent to boarding school in the first place—he had to adjust to his new normal.

Since he couldn’t go to the country club anymore, he had to find other ways to keep himself busy. A lot of that included wandering around the house and playing video games or swimming in the outdoor pool, but even that started to get old after a few weeks. 

Once the bruise on his cheek faded from its sickly yellow color, he started riding his bike into town, trying to find people to play with him at the public tennis courts. It actually ended up being decently fun most days. He got to play with a lot of older kids, and even some adults, and was usually able to hold his own. 

Thankfully Peter and Chris still made an effort to hang out with him away from the club, so he wasn’t a total loner all summer. Sometimes the three of them would go to the public courts to play or try to pick up girls. He even had his first kiss a few weeks ago, with a girl named Stephanie Graydon under a tree at the park while his friends heckled and her friends squealed in the background. 

The summer wasn’t all bad, in the end. 

At home, his parents still worked long hours, but Patrick noticed that they seemed to be home more often than previous summers. Even though she still wasn’t particularly warm about it, his mother started asking him more questions, and started making it home for dinner more nights than not. His father, when he wasn’t in D.C., also seemed to cool off a lot. 

He never apologized to Patrick for what he did, but he also didn’t do it again. He didn’t even use his belt for the entire rest of the summer. The worst of his father’s anger fluctuated between harsh words and purposeful disinterest, sort of like before things started going south between them a few years ago. 

He still wouldn’t say his relationship with his parents was good, exactly, but it seemed like a step in the right direction. Albeit, a tiny step, but a step nonetheless. 

But his parents willingly driving him to school? It’s not sitting right with him. He doesn’t think things are turning around for him enough that his parents are suddenly interested in spending this much time with him, even if it’s to send him off.

They left the house ungodly early this morning, so they end up arriving at the school in the mid-afternoon, most of the other families having long arrived by then. By the time the car pulls into the loading zone, Patrick is dying to get out and stretch his legs. 

At first glance, the campus is pretty—the sidewalks are lined with huge trees and there are fancy-looking red brick buildings scattered around. From the parking lot Patrick can see a long row of outdoor tennis courts. 

The air is thicker than it is in Connecticut. He starts sweating almost immediately.

His father takes him to get his room assignment and key in the main building, his huge politician smile plastered on his face. He takes to charming every person they speak to, as if Patrick’s new school is just another fundraiser for his constituents. 

It hits him then that his father isn’t here for anything other than keeping up appearances. He’s not here for Patrick at all. He tries not to let the realization weigh him down, but the disappointment settles in quick. 

He was right to wait for the other shoe to drop.

It’s honestly a relief when they finally make it to Patrick’s dorm room; that is, until he notices the blond-haired boy crouched over one of the twin beds, already unpacking his things. 

An older woman emerges from the attached bathroom, holding a half-folded towel in her hands. 

“Oh! You must be Art’s roommate, he’s been wondering when you would show up!”

The kid— Art ? Patrick has never met anyone named Art before—turns bright red and looks away from Patrick. 

“Grandma,” he mutters through his teeth, like he’s embarrassed, voice barely loud enough for Patrick to hear it. 

For some reason, Patrick starts feeling embarrassed too, even though he hasn’t done anything but walk in the room. 

He tries to get out a soft, “Hi,” but he’s quickly overshadowed by his father’s loud voice. 

“We had a bit of a long drive this morning,” he says, mostly addressing the woman who is apparently Art’s grandma. He offers out a hand for her to shake. “Richard Zweig, pleased to meet you. This is my son, Patrick.” 

As she shakes his hand, Art’s grandma starts getting that moony expression that a lot of people get around his father, like they can’t help but be charmed by him immediately. 

“Oh my, it’s nice to meet you as well. I’m Alma, and this is Art,” she says, gesturing again where Art stands by his bed. She continues shaking his hand for a few more seconds before she seems to gather herself a bit. “Where did you two drive from?” 

While the two of them start talking—well, Patrick’s father starts talking, Art’s grandma starts swooning —Patrick risks another glance at Art. Their eyes meet, just for a second, before Art looks away, as if he’s scared he got caught looking. 

When his father drops the Congress bomb, Art’s grandmother starts absolutely gushing. 

This time, Patrick’s cheeks start burning with a red flush. Art looks over to him then, and Patrick begs him with his eyes not to make things weird. It’s already weird enough, moving in with a stranger. He doesn’t want Art to look at him differently because of who his father is. 

Art gives him a small, closed-lip smile, that Patrick chooses to interpret as I get it . Patrick gives him a matching one in return, though it’s a little tight. 

After a few more minutes of small talk between the grown-ups—and awkward silent glances between Art and Patrick—he and his father go back to the car to get his mom and Peggy. Between the four of them, they’re able to unload all of Patrick’s stuff relatively quickly. 

At some point, Art and his grandma step out to grab the last few items from their own car, leaving just Patrick and his family in the small room. 

Of course, his father takes the opportunity to proactively reprimand him. To remind him that no matter what he does, he’ll always be a disappointment. 

Patrick feels stupid for not seeing this coming. How is it still a shock to him, even after twelve years of the same bullshit?

“Now, Patrick, I don’t have to remind you how generous your mother and I were to send you to this school, do I?”

His body sinks a little bit, resignation filling his limbs. 

“No, sir.”

“And you understand how expensive it is, correct? How much of a sacrifice we are making?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good. So if I hear even one word about you misbehaving, or letting your grades slip, or embarrassing this family in any way, you understand that you will be transferred to a military school, correct?”

He swallows against the tension rising in his throat. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good. I expect you to be on your absolute best behavior, young man. And don’t think for one second that I won’t find out if you are not.”

He nods an affirmative, eyes downcast. He focuses on picking out the colors speckled in the dark gray carpet beneath his feet—hints of navy blue, maroon, black—letting his father’s words go unheard as he drones on. 

It’s weird, the way his father is treating this like a kindness they’re doing for him, rather than a convenient excuse to get rid of him. Like he should be thankful . 

After a few more repetitive minutes of his father’s scolding, his family promptly prepares to leave. 

With barely a few parting words, his mother and father are exiting his room. Peggy is the only one who squeezes him tight, the only one who says she’ll miss him, the only one who wishes him well. 

He has to bite his lip against the way it starts to wobble. 

Just like that, he’s alone. He doesn’t know why he’s shocked they couldn’t even stand being here long enough to actually help him unpack. 

Suddenly, the tiny dorm room feels massive around him. Or maybe it’s him that feels tiny, the idea of unpacking all of his belongings a giant, daunting threat squashing him down into a minuscule pulp. 

At a loss of where to even start, he rummages through boxes looking for his bedding when Art and his grandma return. 

“Oh, honey, did your family leave already?” Art’s grandma asks, with a not-so-subtle glance into the hallway. 

Patrick clears his throat, a little sticky with emotion. “Oh, um, yes, ma’am. They had to get going.”

She tuts, and Art just looks at him with his big blue eyes from where he stands half-behind her. Patrick sort of feels like Art has x-ray vision. 

“Well that’s a shame, me and Art here were hoping we could all go to dinner, get to know each other a bit!” 

Patrick simply sucks his lips into his mouth, unsure what to respond to that. 

“How about you come out to dinner with us anyway, sweetheart? We can go, just the three of us.” 

Art gives him another shy smile, more full than the one from earlier. “Yeah, it’ll be fun,” he pipes up. 

It dawns on Patrick that this is the first time Art has spoken directly to him this whole day. 

He’s also struck by how much he really, really doesn’t want to be alone right now.

“Sure,” he says. “I’d like that.”

* * *

When Art’s grandma drops the two of them off after dinner, it really starts to set in for Patrick that this is his new home . That he is sharing a room with this stranger—who is very nice and seems totally normal—but still. It’s weird, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s being punished. 

Which, he supposes, he is . 

He wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t pulled that stunt with the golf cart. If he hadn’t pushed his father over the edge.

Obviously he and Art have their love for tennis in common, and they like some of the same video games, but the conversation between them was stilted and a little bit awkward at dinner. 

His grandmother, however, is bafflingly nice. She bought Art and Patrick burgers, fries, and milkshakes for dinner, and was asking question after question about Patrick, as if she actually cared enough to hear the answers. 

Art seemed a little embarrassed by her chattiness, but Patrick honestly found it endearing. It felt nice to be the focus of someone’s attention. 

Halfway through their meal, he also realized that there was no mention of Art’s parents, not from Art or his grandma. He’s definitely not going to be the one to bring that up any time soon, but he can’t help from wondering if he and Art have something else in common, too. 

Now Art and Patrick are alone in their room for the first time, without the buffer of other people. Patrick had come up on his own first, while Art said goodbye to his grandmother in private, but before he left she had spoken to Art and Patrick together on the sidewalk. 

“You boys need to take care of each other.”

The words keep swimming in Patrick’s head. It seems like such a daunting request for two kids who barely know each other.

He’s never been good at making friends. Not really. Before Peter and Chris, and even Jack, there were not many people he would even consider acquaintances. Sure, people liked him alright, but it never went much deeper than that. 

He thinks he can see himself being friends with Art. Maybe that’s why he’s being so weird, because he doesn’t want to mess things up when it’s so new and fragile. 

So they continue unpacking, asking each other basic questions and talking about tennis, and Patrick tries not to think about how he ended up here in the first place. 

2001

By the time the spring semester rolls around, Art and Patrick are inseparable. Attached at the hip. Sold as a package deal, with the disclaimer in big bold letters: Do Not Separate!

It took a while for the ice to thaw completely between them, but once it did, it was as if they were merely two halves of one whole. Like they’ve known each other their entire lives, deep in their souls. 

Patrick finds himself slightly obsessed with Art. Not in a creepy way, but in the way he wants to be around Art all the time, always in his orbit and the focus of his attention. 

Patrick also finds that he craves physical connection with Art. Constantly needs to be touching him, somewhere, somehow. He can’t really explain it, how he feels fidgety when Art isn’t in reach of him. He’s always finding excuses to brush their shoulders together or throw his arm around him, or bump their knees together under the table when they eat in the cafeteria. He doesn’t even notice it half the time, as if his hands gravitate towards Art all on their own accord, or by an immovable magnetic force. 

Art doesn’t seem to be bothered by it, so he assumes that he doesn’t mind.

In fact, as time goes on, Art starts reciprocating touches too. Not as frequently, and not as publicly, but he does all the same.  

Sometimes when they’re in their room, Art will come up close while they watch movies together on Patrick’s portable DVD player, settling against his side. 

He’s even started running his fingers through Patrick’s hair some nights. Patrick is not really sure when this habit started, but he doesn’t care because it might be one of his favorite things in the whole entire world. The soothing motion of Art’s fingers, combing through Patrick’s mess of curls or scratching against his scalp—it always feels so good and makes him feel boneless in the best way. 

Art teases him if it makes him fall asleep, even if they’re in the middle of a movie or having a conversation. He’ll jokingly act offended, but he continues to do it, so Patrick doesn’t think he’s actually offended at all.

Patrick also loves the fact that Art is so sweet and innocent—corrupting his wholesome mind is one of Patrick’s new favorite activities. 

He totally understands why his old friends back home liked doing it to him. The first time he heard Art say the word “fuck” Patrick nearly fell off his bed from laughing so hard. 

And then there was the whole jerking-off-together thing. Patrick thinks that’s what really sealed the deal for them—it may as well have been a blood oath with how intensely it bonded them. 

Art never mentioned it again. Barely even looked at him for a week afterwards. But Patrick thinks about it all the time . He… doesn’t really know what that means, for him. 

Things really settle into place for them when they start playing doubles together. Everyone at Mark Rebellato has to play doubles as well as singles, which Patrick was honestly pissed about at first. It’s not required that they have to play with their roommates, but it seems like a lot of the kids do anyway. 

It came as a shock to everyone—Patrick included—how naturally he and Art came together as a duo.

They’re good. Really good. 

Patrick remembers how he never liked playing doubles before. How he hated sharing the court with anyone, because he wanted all the attention and the action for himself. 

With Art, though, it’s totally different. They move like they’re two extensions of the same body—just a right arm and a left arm—working together seamlessly. Even with their opposite playstyles, it’s magic when they’re on the court together. It’s also just so fun , playing with Art. 

And thus, Fire and Ice is born. 

He has never, ever had a friend like Art before. A best friend. Even in such a short period, he thinks Art knows him better than anyone else in the entire world. 

Being friends and roommates and doubles partners with Art makes him feel so seen. Appreciated. Maybe even loved . Things he never even realized were missing from his life until Art came along. 

Well—Art and a large portion of the female student body, that is. What little attention he doesn’t get from Art he starts to crave from girls, and he’s pleased to find that he’s actually pretty savvy with them. When he’s talking to a pretty girl, flirting with her, charming her, Patrick almost feels as invincible as he did that night he snuck into the pool, like he’s testing the limits he’s been stuck beneath his whole life. 

Like last month, he convinced Jamie Tudor to let him cop a feel under her bra as a thirteenth birthday present. It had him riding a giddy high for hours. 

When he got back to their room that night, he gave Art a high-five with the same hand and didn’t tell him until after. The way Art pretended to be grossed out and wrestled him to the ground made him feel just as good. Maybe even better, with Art’s body pinning him to the ground and his laugh filling Patrick’s ears. 

As much as he hates to admit it, coming to Mark Rebellato was the best thing that ever fucking happened to him. If he could go back in time to change everything that led to him being here, living with Art and playing tennis every day and easily able to sneak unsupervised time with girls—he’s not sure that he would. 

He never realized how much he was walking on eggshells, back in Connecticut. Here, he feels like he can finally figure out who he is, without the stifling weight of his parents’ expectations. 

It’s freeing and exhilarating, and everything he never knew he was dying for. 

* * * 

The first weekend in April marks the annual Parents’ Weekend at Mark Rebellato. The school plans huge family events with carnival games and fundraising raffles, a big school-wide tournament, and even mixers for the parents without their kids—all to build community before the school year ends. 

Patrick’s parents don’t show up. 

What a fucking surprise. 

It’s not like he even expected them to come, but he can’t help the sour taste in his mouth when he watches his classmates show their parents around and have someone to cheer for them in the tournament. 

He and Art devise a plan to get knocked out of the tournament in the first round, so they can ditch the entire event and bitch about it together. 

They sneak away from the crowd of people—Christ, it’s like the goddamn state fair—and make their way to the roof of their dorm. 

A few months ago they gleefully learned that the alarm system for the staircase is busted, and the door to the roof is never locked. It’s become their secret spot, just for the two of them. No one else knows about it, and they pinky swore they’d keep it that way.

Art leans his front against the concrete barrier, which hits at about his mid-chest, and watches the tiny ant-sized people interact on the sidewalk below them. 

Patrick can’t stomach it—watching the fucking happy families—for one more second. He drops straight on his ass and leans his back against the corner of the barrier, letting out a loud groan of annoyance. 

“Jesus fuck, man, I thought we’d never escape.”

Art just hums, still staring out at the crowd.

No one came for him this weekend either, Patrick has to remind himself. His grandma was planning on it, but she caught a stomach bug at the last minute and had to miss her flight from Ohio. He knows Art is worried about her, even if he doesn’t outright say it.

It was only recently that Art confided in Patrick about his own parents—how they died in a car accident when he was just a baby, leaving him in the custody of his mom’s mom. How she’s really the only family that Art has. That’s why they're so close, he explained, because it’s always been just the two of them. 

He swore that he’s over the whole thing, that he hardly even remembers that he has parents to miss half the time. 

But with a weekend like this, Patrick wonders if Art is a little more affected by it than he lets on. 

“Hey, Art, you good?”

He seems to startle out of his mess of thoughts and looks down at Patrick. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah, man. I’m good.”

Patrick watches the way his eyebrows furrow and knows he’s lying.

He takes a guess. “She’ll be fine, you know.”

Art immediately drops his face, doesn’t even try to deny that he was preoccupied with worrying about his grandma.

“Yeah, I know. It—just… she’s getting older,” he stammers. “What if this is the start of something bad?” 

He looks at Patrick with his big, sad puppy dog eyes, and Patrick's heart threatens to crack in half. Patrick knows how much Art worries about her on a daily basis, how hard it is for him sometimes to be away from her. How he can spiral when he really gets thinking about her getting hurt or sick without him around. 

And Patrick can’t have that. He can’t let Art start down that path of thinking. He shoots him a teasing grin—his special way of diffusing an Art Situation.

“Damn dude, that’s fucking bleak. But your grandma is a total badass, she’s not gonna let a little shit get her down.” His smirk sharpens. “Literally.”

Art’s face crumples up in disgust, but Patrick can see hints of a smile poking through. 

“Ew, Patrick. You’re fucking nasty, you know that?” 

Patrick simply laughs in response. Riling Art up never fails to cheer him up. He makes it so fucking easy.  

Art comes to sit alongside him, but before he lowers himself to the ground completely he knees Patrick in the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. 

“Hey!” He playfully protests, which finally makes Art laugh too as he straightens back up. They sit flush together, knee to hip to shoulder, and Patrick leans his weight further into Art, seeking the warmth of his body. 

A quiet moment passes between them, before Art softly admits, “She’s all I have. I just don’t want anything to happen to her.”

Patrick turns to look at Art, eyeing the way he starts picking at his fingernails. His cuticles are always a bloody mess, nails bitten to nubs and the skin ripped to shreds. To prevent Art from causing any more damage Patrick grabs the hand closest to him and traps it between both his own. 

Art looks at him, eyes a little wide with surprise, but doesn’t pull away. They’re not really the hand-holding type, but Patrick thought it just felt right in this moment to give him something to hold on to. 

Patrick squeezes Art’s hand tight before he says, “You have me too, you know.” 

Art starts blinking rapidly as he looks away, off to the side. Patrick just rests his head against Art’s shoulder and squeezes his hand again. 

When Art rests his head against Patrick’s a few moments later, he ignores the flutter in his stomach. It’s just nice, he thinks—having someone be so openly affectionate with him.

No one is around to see them anyway. It’s fine. 

The sounds from the tournament and the crowd below travel up to them, fading pleasantly into the background. Closer, he hears Art murmur, “You also have me. Just, ya know, so you know.”

There goes that flutter again. 

“I’m sorry your parents didn’t come,” Art continues.

Patrick’s smile turns bitter. 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think they would. So. No biggie.”

Art has definitely started to pick up on the strained relationship he has with his parents, even if he doesn’t know the full extent of how much he and his father don’t get along. Patrick doesn’t plan on divulging that particular detail, but he’s not shy about complaining about how much of an asshole he is otherwise. 

“Still. It sucks.”

As much as he wants to deny it, to swear that he doesn’t care, he can’t help the, “yeah, it does,” that leaves his mouth. 

Because it does suck. 

It sucks that his parents practically fucking hate him and couldn’t even be bothered to visit him, just this once. It sucks that he even wanted them to, because despite everything, they’re still his parents and he wants what all those other kids below them have. 

It also sucks that Art’s parents are fucking dead, and the only family he has left couldn’t be here. It sucks all around.

The only thing that doesn’t suck is that he gets to be here with Art. In their secret hiding spot, pressed up against each other, giving each other the kind of affection that they mutually crave. 

He looks up at the sky, now starting to soften with the earliest hints of sunset, and wonders how he got so lucky to find the only person who could possibly understand Patrick this perfectly. 

He thinks back to that first night together, when Art’s grandma gathered them close and told them with so much conviction to take care of each other. 

Maybe this is what she meant. Maybe she saw it, long before either of them did—that Patrick and Art would be exactly what the other needed. 

2002

When Art and Patrick reunite at the start of ninth grade and their third year as roommates, Patrick’s right arm is wrapped up in a cast, extending from his fingers to the middle of his forearm.

Navy blue and itchy as fuck, it’s driving him fucking insane. He’s not even supposed to get it off for another month at least , and he thinks he’s actually going to crawl out of his skin before that happens. 

Even when he gets the cast off, he’ll have to wear a stupid brace on his wrist, which is still going to make playing tennis really fucking hard. He can’t even hold a pen, for chrissakes. How is he supposed to hold a tennis racket? 

Nevermind the fact that his doctor told him not to exercise at all with the cast on, so he doesn’t get the gauze all sweaty and make his skin rub off, or something. He’ll be totally deconditioned by the time he can play again.

It’s also just plain humiliating , being fourteen with a broken arm. He feels like a little kid. 

As much as he spent the entire summer dying to get back to school—away from his stupid fucking empty mansion and his stupid fucking parents—he’s also dreading showing up to campus like this. He already knows it’s going to be a thing . 

At least he’s had two weeks to get his story straight.

The past two years, Peggy has been the only one driving him to Virginia and helping him move. Now that he has this cast on his arm, though, he’s worried about how they’re gonna get everything done. Usually he does all the heavy lifting, but now he’s literally not even allowed to lift anything more than ten pounds. 

When they arrive, Patrick has Peggy wait by the car while he gets his room assignment sorted out, wanting to spare her from any extra exertion. 

On his way to his new dorm, he feels the heavy weight of people staring at him.  He tries to ignore the heat prickling at the back of his neck when his classmates shoot him what he thinks are supposed to be sympathetic glances, but really come off as judgemental and morbidly curious. 

Normally he’d let the attention roll right off his back, or he’d start hamming it up, making jokes and relishing in the face of it. 

Not now, though. All he wants to do is sink through the floor and wallow in what feels a lot like shame. 

The rush of relief he feels when he reaches his and Art’s room is staggering. That is, until he opens the door and sees the dumbfounded expression greeting him. 

“Patrick, what the hell is this?” Art asks in lieu of the warm welcome he was hoping for. 

“Language, young man!” Art’s grandma half-heartedly scolds.

“Sorry,” he looks at her, before turning back to Patrick with a weird amount of anger twisting his expression. “Seriously though, what the fu–fudge happened?”

Patrick smirks, trying to cover up the growing sense of unease.

“Hi Art, I missed you too.” Then, to really piss Art off he turns his attention to his grandma, sending her a little wave with his left hand. “Hi Alma, you’re looking lovely, as always.” 

He can practically see the smoke billowing out of Art’s ears. 

Art’s grandma, plenty familiar with Patrick by now, simply waves off his teasing advances.

“Oh honey, you’re just like your father, aren’t you? Such a charmer.” 

Which, ouch. Not what he ever wants to hear. 

His smile falters a little, but he still accepts the hug she wraps him up in. 

She pinches his cheek—such a grandma move, seriously—and tuts at him, nodding her head at his arm. “Now what happened here?”

“Just a stupid accident, is all. No big deal.” He avoids eye contact with her as he says it, which he’s sure Art notices, if the way he scoffs is anything to go off. 

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “You boys. I’m always telling you to be more careful!”

He forces out a laugh, so painfully fake, even to his own ears. 

“Mhm.” He tightly agrees. 

He chances another glance at Art, who is quietly seething and squinting at Patrick’s cast as if it has personally offended him. 

Art’s grandma then looks between the two of them, and finally seems to pick up on the silent tension. 

“Art, honey, how about I run down to the car to make sure we grabbed everything while you and Patrick catch up.” 

It’s about as subtle as a gunshot, but Art still protests—face softening as his gaze switches from Patrick to her.

“No, grandma, you don’t have to do that, it’s a far walk.”

She waves him off, already halfway out the door. 

“Oh, you know me. This old bat needs to get her steps in.” 

And with that, Art and Patrick are alone in their room. 

Art wastes no time. “What the fuck , Patrick?”

“What?” 

“Don’t play fucking dumb. You broke your arm? When? How?” 

Patrick sighs, his carefully crafted story flying right out the window in the light of Art’s interrogation. “Like two weeks ago. I fell.” He bites his bottom lip, starts chewing on it nervously. 

“Two weeks ago?! Why didn’t you tell me? We were talking almost every fucking day!” 

Which is true. Not only had they sent each other long emails every week, but they also chatted pretty much daily on AOL instant messenger the entire summer. 

“I don’t know, it just never came up, I guess.” He crosses his arms against his chest, tucking his right arm under the left. Trying to hide the evidence. 

“It never came up?” Art looks properly mad now, and it is grating on Patrick a bit. 

“I just didn’t think it was important to share.”

“Patrick, you literally share every fucking tiny detail of your life with me!” He turns then, starts pacing around their room, navigating the half-full boxes that he’s strewn across the floor. 

“Why are you being so weird about this? I told you it’s not a big deal.”

“Why are you ?! You didn’t think your best friend would want to know that you broke your fucking arm? And we’re fucking doubles partenrs, man! Don’t you think I’d have a right to know that I’m out a teammate?”

Patrick swallows back the rapidly growing mass of guilt. He can’t even blame Art for being pissed at him. If Art kept something like this from him he’d be fucking furious.

He just… didn’t want Art to worry. He wanted them to continue talking like they have been all summer, without any sort of black cloud hanging over them, when he’d find out eventually anyway.

He hunches over a little more, still curling his arms in front of his chest. 

“I fell. Down the stairs.” Art startles, looking at him with eyes wide like a bug. “It’s not a big deal, just broke my wrist. I just—I didn’t want you to worry about it, is all. I didn’t mean to, like, keep it from you or anything.”

“You… fell down the stairs?” Art gapes, coming back to stand right in front of him again. “ How ?”

Patrick sighs again, looking off to the side. “I don’t know, man. I just did.” 

The other reason he didn’t want to tell Art is because he didn’t want him asking questions. Art is smart, he can always tell when Patrick is hiding something.

Like the fact that his father fucking pushed him down the stairs in the midst of an argument. 

In truth, messaging with Art was the only saving grace he had this whole summer. The only positive in a sea of shit. He didn’t want to bring any of the negativity from his home into their happy bubble together. It felt wrong, like he would taint Art somehow, just by association. 

His father was actually in town for most of the break. Usually it works out that he spends a lot of the summers in D.C., but not this year, apparently. 

Instead, he spent most of the past few months making Patrick’s life a living hell. It seemed like most days, he didn’t even need a reason —he’d just take his frustration out on Patrick, as if he was nothing more than a human punching bag. 

No matter what he did, or didn’t do, if he was around when his father happened to be in a mood… 

After one particularly rough session, where his father had shoved him into the kitchen counter and threw a fucking frying pan at his chest, Patrick had gotten bold. He followed his father up the stairs, yelling about how he didn’t do anything wrong and how he doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. 

He never fought back, always just took it. But for some reason, something in him snapped that day. 

The problem, was that something in his father snapped as well. When he reached the top step he turned around and screamed in Patrick’s face, something unoriginal about how he’s a fucking embarrassment, or a disgrace, or a waste of space. He can’t even remember, and it doesn’t even really matter. 

What he does remember, though, is his father’s rough hand gripping him by the hair, and shoving him backwards. 

Down the fucking staircase. 

Honestly, he’s lucky he only broke his wrist. 

At the hospital, he was diagnosed with a concussion and a broken radius. While the doctor reduced his fracture and put him in a splint until the swelling went down enough to get a cast, his father was all charm and charisma. Pretending to be worried, then joking with the staff about how clumsy Patrick is once the immediate threat wore off. 

“Boys, am I right?”

No one bothered to ask Patrick what happened, simply trusting his father’s tale of accidental trips down the stairs. Not that anyone would believe him anyway, not when the beloved Richard Zweig is involved. 

“Patrick—” Art starts, voice uncharacteristically concerned. Patrick can tell that he knows he’s not getting the full story, but he doesn’t push it. 

Like he said. Art is smart. He knows when to back off, when to stop pressing.

“Look, Art, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But it’s really not a big deal. I swear. Can we just drop it? Besides, we haven’t seen each other in months, man. I missed you.”

Art softens a bit, but a trace of that calculating look remains in his eyes. 

“I missed you too,” Art relents.

A smile finally blooms on Patrick’s face—small, but real. He wastes no more time in pulling Art into a big bear hug, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, like he should have the moment he opened the door. 

“Oof,” Art grunts, when Patrick’s cast whacks him on the shoulder blade.

“Sorry,” he laughs. 

They stay like that, tangled together, longer than Patrick thinks typical friends should. 

But he and Art aren’t typical friends, so he ignores that thought. Instead, he focuses on the familiar smell of Art’s deodorant and traces of sweat, and finally feels like he’s home . 

Art pulls away, but keeps his hand clasped on Patrick’s shoulder. 

“Where’d you park? Let’s get your stuff.”

Art makes for the door, and Patrick follows helplessly.

“You don’t have to help me, man. I can get it.”

“Patrick, your arm is broken. I’ll help you.” 

“But you have your own stuff to unpack,” he protests.

“That can wait.”

“But—”

“No buts, man. I want to help.”

Every time Patrick sees Art for the first time after they’ve been apart, it always hits him all over again just how much he cares about him. How lucky he is that Art cares about him, too. 

“Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Art simply nudges his shoulder with his own, and they make their way to the parking lot. 

Peggy and Art’s grandma have apparently found each other, and are chatting outside Patrick’s parents’ car, having recognized each other from the various moving dates over the years. Peggy gives Art a small hug as well, and then Art starts loading up with Patrick’s heavy boxes. 

Patrick sticks to the bags with straps, so he can avoid his wrist, and Art focuses on the bins and various boxes. Between the two of them, they’re able to move most of Patrick’s stuff easily. 

Art doesn’t even complain. In fact, he seems happy to help. Even when he’s flushed with exertion and sweaty from multiple trips to and from the parking lot, the happy smile never leaves his face. 

God, Patrick missed him so fucking much. 

After Art and Patrick have gotten halfway through unpacking their shit, Peggy and Art’s grandma having long since left campus, Patrick throws out an idea.

“Hey, what if we spend next summer together?” He asks, in what he hopes is a nonchalant way.

“What do you mean?” Art replies, looking up from the t-shirts he’s folding into drawers. 

“Like, I don’t know. What if you came to my house next summer? Or I go to yours? So we can hang out and practice and stuff.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah, it could be fun.”

Art seems to think about it, and a big grin rises up on his face. 

“It would be fun. If you think you could handle being in Ohio for three months, that is.”

Patrick barks a laugh. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I dunno, wouldn’t it offend your New England sensibilities?” 

“Fuck off.”

“But seriously, I bet my grandma would be cool with it. She totally loves you.”

Patrick can’t help the warmth that spreads in his chest. 

“Well why wouldn’t she? Look at me.” 

The wad of t-shirts that hits Patrick in the face isn’t even surprising. He just giggles, and throws them back across the room. 

So the two of them propose what they’ll do together in their respective hometowns, already accepting it as a definitive plan, and Patrick finally feels settled for the first time in months.

2004 – Darien, Connecticut

They spend the summer before eleventh grade at Patrick’s house. 

Patrick was worried, at first, about how Art would react to his parents’ mansion, feeling strangely embarrassed by the lavishness of his childhood home. Especially since they had spent last summer together at Art’s grandma’s modest place just outside of Columbus.

Despite Art’s teasing of his New England sensibilities , Patrick really loved Art’s hometown. He found it charming in its quaintness and he loved picturing Art in every little corner of the town. And honestly, he’d be happy anywhere in the world, as long as Art was by his side. 

Art’s grandma had been more than happy to let Patrick come stay with them. She had set up the air mattress for him in Art’s tiny bedroom, but they never even used it. Patrick simply slept curled next to Art, every single night for three blissful months. 

They woke up side-by-side each morning, and would spend most days down at the community tennis courts before the weather got too hot. They’d break for lunch, shower, and either play video games together or explore around town until dinner. 

And even though they were forced to go to Mass every Sunday morning, Patrick wouldn’t have changed anything about last summer. He’d rather spend every single day in church than spend one day around his parents, at this point. 

Unfortunately though, during Christmas break last year Art’s grandma caught a gnarly bout of the flu, which turned into pneumonia. She ended up in the hospital for a few days, and never fully recovered. When Art had to come back to school, he was worried sick about leaving her in their house all alone. 

So Art’s grandmother made the difficult decision to move herself into an assisted living facility, to try to get ahead of any complications that could come from living alone at her age. Art could still go back to the house when he visited, since it’s paid off completely, but his grandma would no longer be there too. 

He really struggled with the idea of going to the house alone, even if Patrick joined him. In the end, it was his grandmother who insisted he go home with Patrick this summer, to get away and experience something new. Art needed a lot of convincing, since he wanted to spend as much time as possible with her just in case , but they both eventually worked him over. She was fine , she assured him—but she insisted he’d have more fun in Connecticut.

It took Art a while to fully settle in, but eventually he started having a good time. 

Art teased him endlessly about the mansion, and the pool, and the movie room, and every other aspect of Patrick’s home-life, but Patrick knew it was because Art couldn’t fathom the amount of wealth on display, and making fun of it was his way of coping with it. Patrick gets it. 

Art had only met his parents the one time, on that very first day at Mark Rebellato, but they remembered him and his grandmother enough to allow him to come stay for the summer. 

Patrick, on the other hand, almost gave himself an aneurysm worrying about how Art would react to actually being around his parents. 

Or rather, not being around his parents. 

The summer is usually a busy time for his mother—apparently people commit more crimes in the hotter months, for some reason—so her presence is scarce. 

Patrick’s father is in the middle of running for Senate. He’s campaigning all over town, while also spending a lot of time in Washington, since he’s still a sitting member of the House of Representatives. 

Patrick sure isn’t complaining about their absences. Him and Art essentially having the place to themselves with Peggy next-door definitely has its perks. 

When they are around, his parents are surprisingly mostly pleasant, if only for Art’s sake. Always playing the part of the loving parents in a big happy family. 

It makes Patrick sick, watching them pretend. It’s not as overt as it is for their public appearances, at least, but it’s certainly enough of a facade to settle under Patrick’s skin. It’s like they’re rubbing it in his face that they are capable of acting like a family, of treating him the way they treated Maddie when she was his age. 

It’s obvious to him that Art sees right through it, thankfully, picking up on their act right away.

And his father at least has enough tact to not lose his temper around Art. Patrick finds that he feels more comfortable being at home than he has in years , thanks to Art’s presence. 

He should have known it wouldn’t last. That he’d do something to fuck everything up. 

One day, when he and Art are fucking around on the public courts, some boys their age ask if they want to play doubles. They go to the public high school, so Patrick probably wouldn’t have known them even if he stayed in Darien anyway. 

Art and Patrick agree to play, obviously, and completely demolish the other boys. It’s not even fair—he almost feels bad. 

But they get to talking, and they mention that one of their friends is throwing a Fourth of July party the following weekend, and invite them to come along. 

So here they are now, on Saturday, July third, sneaking out of Patrick’s house in search of the party. 

Does it even count as sneaking out when no one is there to stop them? His mom is out at the country club for their own holiday soirée , and his father has blessedly been down in D.C. all week. 

Regardless, the party is about a twenty minute walk from Patrick’s house, and they find it relatively easy. No one even looks twice at them as they mingle amongst the crowd. 

Right away Patrick grabs them some beers, that he and Art cheers before downing in one go. 

Somewhere along the way, they go from pleasantly buzzed to fucking wasted. They’re chugging beer after beer, and then someone comes around with a handle of vodka and pours it down their throats, and then there’s jello shots… and yeah. They get sloppy fast . 

For the past twenty minutes or so, Patrick has been sneakily watching Art chat up some pretty redhead, while trying to drown his growing jealousy in more beer. 

At least he’s drunk enough to admit to himself that it’s not Art he’s jealous of right now. Is he just jealous that Art is focused on someone else? Or is it because Art is flirting with someone else?

When they start making out, Patrick can’t stand to watch anymore. The beer in his mouth goes stale at the sight.

Guess that answers that question. It’s something he’s been slowly coming to terms with for the past few years, but somehow it always feels fresh when he’s faced with a reminder like this. When he’s drunk, no less. 

He’s able to quickly find someone else to occupy his attention, to distract himself from watching Art like some fucking perv—some short blonde girl who’s been not-so-subtly eyeing him all night. 

She’s dressed in skimpy denim shorts and a low-cut red top, says her name is Amy or Annie or something of the sort. He doesn’t care, doesn’t bother to clarify, because soon enough, they’re kissing too. 

He tries to ignore how her curls are almost the same color as Art’s, but when he squints his eyes he can almost pretend. If he ignores the height difference, and the strawberry lip gloss, and the overbearing scent of vanilla, that is. 

But at this point, a warm body is a warm body. Patrick drags them inside and locks them inside a spare bedroom so they can have some privacy. 

They end up missing the fireworks, but Patrick would pick a handjob over fireworks any day. 

After he comes, he makes quick work of her little shorts and kneels in front of her, lifting her leg up on his shoulder, and repays her for her troubles. He’s a gentleman, after all. 

She gives him her number when they’re done, but he doesn’t bother to tell her that she’ll never hear from him. 

He heads back outside, scanning the lawn for a familiar head of blond curls and a backwards cap, but comes up empty. Tiny sprinkles of jealousy start festering in him once again, overpowering the residual pleasure from his hook-up.

What he does find, however, is a group of people passing a joint around. Lucky for him, they’re more than happy to let him cut in and take a few hits while he waits. 

By the time Art finds him, he’s crossfaded as fuck. His arms and legs are heavy as concrete and his vision is blurry. Everything is so warm and he thinks he’s already halfway to sinking through the earth underneath him. 

Art’s face swims into his sight-line, blocking his view of the moon, where he’s been staring for so long that it starts to look wiggly. Why is Art upside-down? The idea of it makes him laugh until he realizes it’s because he’s lying flat on his back in the grass and Art is bent over him. Ha, duh. 

“Art!” 

“Hey, man,” Art says, eyes crinkling in that cute way they do when he’s drunk. 

“Where have you been ?! I missed you!” 

“I missed you too, pal.” Now he sounds like he’s making fun of Patrick, but he doesn’t even care because it’s Art . 

God, he loves him so much he’s giddy with it. He starts giggling, and then he can’t stop, and everything is just so warm and tingly and he’s never been more comfortable in his life. 

“What do you say we start heading home, huh Pat?”

“Mmm,” he hums, still giggling. “I wanna sleep here. So comfy.”

Art steps over him so that he’s standing directly over his chest, one leg on either side. It makes Patrick dizzy to follow him with his eyes. Art bends at the knees then until he’s basically duck-squatting over Patrick’s chest. The position throws him into another burst of giggles, but at least Art’s pretty face is right-side up now. 

Art reaches out to grab his face in one hand, pinching his chin between his fingers and shaking his head back and forth. He has to shut his eyes because they can’t keep up with the movement. 

“Hey, are you good?”

Eyes still closed and Art’s hand still on his face, he smiles again. Just so happy . 

“ So good, Art.” 

The warm pressure on his chin leaves, and he thinks he hears Art’s knees crack as he stands up. He can’t open his eyes, though. Too heavy. 

The next thing he knows, he’s gasping awake at the feeling of ice against his neck. 

“Wake up,” Art orders, kneeling next to his head now. 

“What the hell, man?” He grumbles, a lot less happy after that rude fucking wake-up call. 

Art doesn’t answer, just pulls him into a seated position. He twists open a water bottle and holds it to Patrick’s lips. 

“Drink.”

He huffs, but he does what Art tells him to. They sit there while he swallows down the whole crisp bottle. 

“C’mon, let’s walk it off,” Art says, getting to his feet. He doesn’t offer to help Patrick up, just gets behind him and heaves him up with his arms around his chest. 

Here come the giggles again. 

Patrick is a little wobbly on his feet, but Art wraps an arm around his waist and slings Patrick’s arm over his shoulders. 

They start walking in the direction of Patrick’s house, but his legs are so heavy. He leans on Art a little bit more, taking advantage of their proximity, even in his altered state. He’s just so warm, that’s all. 

“Art,” he whispers. 

“What?”

“Are you mad at me?”

Art huffs a laugh. “No man, you’re just heavy, s’all.” He squeezes Patrick’s waist, as if to reassure him. 

“Oh.” A beat, then with a shark-like grin, “Did you get lucky?” 

“I’m not telling you.”

He mock-gasps. “Why not?” 

“Because, Patrick.” 

“Boo. You’re such a pussy.”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Yes you do! Just tell me, I won’t tell anyone,” he whispers, so Art can tell that he means serious business about the secret of it all. 

Art lets out a dramatic, resigned sigh. One that Patrick is oh-too-familiar with, after years of living together.

“Fine. She blew me in the bathroom, and then I fingered her. Happy?”

Patrick cackles right in Art’s ear, and uses the arm that’s around his shoulder to pinch at the back of his neck, where he’s ticklish. 

“Sooo happy,” he sing-songs, drawing out the “o” sound. “Proud of you, baby.”

Patrick leans his head toward Art, just enough to leave a sloppy, wet kiss on his cheek and drag his lips down his jaw. 

“Ugh, shut up. Get offa me.”

“All I got was a handy,” he pouts.

“That’s still pretty good, man.”

He hums in agreement. Better than nothing, he supposes. Better than sulking on the lawn, picturing Art and that girl. Or worse—imagining Art’s hand wrapped around him, how his calloused fingers would feel sliding up and down…

He forces that train of thought off the tracks, but leans his body a little further into Art still. As if he’s suddenly feeling lightheaded, for, uh, no reason. 

By the time they finally make it up the winding driveway to Patrick’s house, he’s feeling a smidge more clear-headed. 

Apparently not enough though, because neither he nor Art notice his father’s car out front. 

Sneaking through the front door, they close it quietly, then start to tip-toe their way to the kitchen on a mission to load up on water and snacks for the night.

Instead, they walk straight into Richard Zweig. 

“What the hell is this?”

Even though Art is practically holding Patrick upright, he darts away at the sound of his father’s voice. Patrick’s entire body seizes. 

In biology class, he learned that it’s not just fight or flight when animals feel threatened. There’s a less-talked about third response, too: freeze. Like a deer in headlights or a possum playing dead. Patrick always thought that sounded stupid, when faced with the other two options. That his survival instincts would be way stronger than a damn possum.

Guess he never put it in context like this before. 

Though he’s never been this terrified before. Because Art is here. 

Art shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t see this. 

His dad’s not supposed to do this with Art here. He thought it was safe .

Fucking idiot. 

When neither of them answer, he raises his voice. 

“I said, what the hell is this?”

Because he’s fucking stupid, Patrick only asks, “Wh-what are you doing home?” 

“Session got out early today. Figured I’d try to make it home on a late flight in time for the holiday. But clearly , the party started without me.” 

He looks between Patrick and Art, his cold eyes taking in their disheveled appearances, the glassiness of their eyes. 

Fuck . 

“Have you boys been drinking?”

Patrick internally is freaking out, feels so nervous that he fears he’s going to pass out. Or puke. But his body remains frozen, completely stuck in place by his father’s gaze. 

When he doesn’t say anything, Art meekly replies, “Mr. Zweig, this is all my fault. I’m the one who convinced Patrick to come with me to a party. I’m so sorry, sir.” 

His father’s eyes sweep over to Art, and immediately Patrick knows he’s not buying it for a second. 

He doesn’t think that his father will do anything to Art. Or even in front of Art. But he can’t help the image in his head of his father backhanding Art across the face, punching him in the gut. It rattles him to his fucking core. 

“Art, I appreciate you taking accountability, even though I doubt this was all your idea. But you boys are underaged. You have no idea how destructive alcohol is to your brains that young. Nevermind the fact that it’s illegal with serious consequences if you had been caught. I’m very disappointed in you both.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Art apologizes again. Patrick can’t find it in himself to muster up an apology—his mind too preoccupied with the horrific images of Art in his place for all these years. 

“Art, why don’t you head upstairs. I’d like a word with my son alone.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He tries to beg Art with his eyes not to leave him, even though he needs with his entire body and soul for Art to get the fuck out. To get away . 

He should never have come here. What the fuck was Patrick thinking inviting him here in the first place? He didn’t even want to come. They should’ve just gone back to Ohio, where it’s actually safe. 

Art hesitates just a moment, shooting Patrick an apologetic glance, then heads toward the staircase. The house is dead silent, except for the sound of Art’s footsteps up, up, up the stairs, and then down the hall to Patrick’s room. 

If a pin dropped right now, he could easily hear it echo through the kitchen. So he hears the soft snick of the door closing upstairs, even halfway across the house. 

Not even a moment later, his father is seething . 

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you stupid? I am in the middle of running for fucking Senate , do you understand that? Do you have any idea how fucking reckless you are, walking around in public like that ? Nevermind the fact that you two were hanging all over each other like a couple of fairies. I mean, what would people think ?”

“No, dad, it’s not like that, I swear. I—I’m sorry we drank. It won’t happen again, but we—we’re not. Like that. I swear.”

He’s rambling, gripped by a blinding panic, only accentuated by how crossed he still is. 

He’s so fucking stupid . 

“You know,” his father says, voice so low and cruel it sends shivers down his spine. “I thought that boy was a good influence on you. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t let you be around him, if he’s going to convince you to be a complete fool.”

“No, no—he is. He is a good influence on me. It’s not his fault, he was just saying that to protect me, I swear.”

He’s lost in his own sea of white-hot terror, completely drowning in it, when the blow comes.

The slap is so quick, so forceful, and he’s so out of his mind that he’s completely thrown by it, never having the chance to see it coming. He stumbles back until he’s crashing into the counter, hitting it just right so that he knocks his mother’s vase onto the floor, where it shatters in a mess of glass and water and red rose petals. 

He follows the vase onto the ground—hands and knees landing hard on the shards of glass. His father kicks his back while he’s down, sending him scrabbling even further into the mess. 

“Clean this up. Now.” His father demands, then stalks away without another word. 

Pushing up to his knees, Patrick only sees swirls of red staining the floor where his hands just were. Red from the roses, red from his body, all blending together until he can barely tell the colors apart. 

It’s like he’s in a trance, while he discards the flowers and sweeps up the glass. Ignoring the tiny shards lodging further into his palms and his knees. 

He wipes up the water (and the blood?), then goes up to his room, holding his hands above his elbows so he doesn’t drip blood in a trail behind him.

It’s like he blinks, and then the next second he’s struggling to twist his doorknob, not wanting to wedge the glass deeper into his hands. 

The door suddenly opens on its own. Oh yeah. Art. 

Fuck, Art. 

For a moment, he forgot about Art being here. He—He can’t be here. Can’t see him like this. Can’t know about this. 

Oh fuck fuck motherfucking fuck. 

“Patrick?” His eyes trail down Patrick’s body, then: “You’re bleeding!” Art drags him into the bedroom and steers him toward the ensuite bathroom, settling him on the bench in his shower. “What the fuck ? What happened?”

“I—” but he doesn’t know how to explain. Shit, his head is still swimming from the booze and the weed and the terror of Art being tainted by this. 

Art pulls his shoes off, then his socks, and scrutinizes the trails of blood dripping from his knees down his shins. 

Inspecting the cuts further, he gasps, “Is this fucking glass ?” 

His eyes are wide as they find Patrick’s. Ha. It makes him think about that deer trapped in headlights again. He’s the possum, so Art can be the deer, he figures. 

Art starts rummaging through the drawers in his bathroom, then his bedroom, and comes back with washcloths, tweezers, the first-aid kit that lives under the sink, and a flashlight. Patrick didn’t even know he had all that shit around. 

When Art starts using the flashlight and tweezers to pick the splinters of glass out of his knees, the dam keeping him together fucking shatters —just like the vase. As having Art here in the aftermath of something like this is the final piece he needed to put together how fucked this all is. 

Once they start, the tears don’t stop. 

“Hey, hey ,” Art mutters softly. He drops his supplies and reaches his hands out, aiming to cradle Patrick’s face. When his fingers brush against Patrick’s left cheek, he can’t help the way he recoils, jerking frantically away from the ache of a forming bruise. 

That must be when Art notices the redness there too, as distracted as he was by the blood. Patrick watches the color drain from his face, and feels a twin sensation the way his stomach sinks. 

“Patrick… I should—I should get you some ice.” 

As Art makes to stand up, the panic rips through him, tears him apart. Has him choking out sobs in earnest. 

“No, no , Art. No, you can’t leave. Please don’t leave.” 

“Hey, okay, okay. I’m not going anywhere.” He kneels back on the ground, right in Patrick’s line of sight. “See? I’m staying right here with you.” 

Patrick nods desperately. Art can’t go out there, where his dad could be waiting for him. 

Art starts checking for glass again, this time in his palms—holding his fingers so softly—while Patrick blubbers above him. 

“How—how often does this happen?” Art asks, voice low, like he doesn’t want to know the answer. 

All Patrick can manage is a shake of his head. Desperate to hang on to any shred of plausible deniability. 

Art continues cleaning him up, but Patrick can see the way his mind wanders. He’s sure he’s combing through every interaction with Patrick he’s ever had, blaming himself for signs that he missed. 

Proving his fucking point, Art asks, “You… you didn’t fall down the stairs, did you?” 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he shakes his head again. An admission, at least.

“ Patrick .”

“You—you can’t tell anyone,” he frantically cries. “Art, pro-promise me you won’t tell.”

“Your dad hits you, Patrick! You’re literally covered in blood. And he—he broke your fucking arm, man. What the fuck ?”

“No, it’s… it’s not that bad. I swear! He’s never even home and we’re at school so much and it’s okay. I promise, Art.”

“Why are you protecting him?”

“I…” He’s not. 

But is he? 

He really doesn’t want to tell Art the truth, that he’s scared that if anyone finds out about this, his father will actually fucking kill him. 

But is that the only reason? Or is there still a part of him that clings to the desperate hope that someday, his father might change. 

Because speaking it aloud makes it true, makes it real . Even though he has the years of bruises to prove it, he’s always held onto a sliver of hope that maybe things can be normal.

But if it’s real and tangible and true, then there’s no hope of his father changing, is there?

Another part of him doesn’t want to accept it for what it is. Yeah, his father hits him sometimes. But he’s not like other kids that this happens to, the ones he’s heard about on the news. He’s not, like, abused, or anything. 

It’s… it’s not the same. It can’t be the same. 

“You can’t tell anyone, Art. You can’t.” He pleads again, around a fresh round of sobs. 

Art looks like he would rather die than say it, but he still murmurs, “Okay, Patrick, okay. I won’t. I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

He looks Patrick in the eyes and says, “I promise.” 

Patrick takes a shaky breath and tries to believe him. 

After a moment passes, Art grabs the washcloth and wets it in the sink, then scrubs the blood off Patrick’s hands, wrists, knees, and shins. Most of the bleeding has stopped by now, except for the deepest cuts on his palms. 

He cleans the areas with rubbing alcohol, repeating soothing apologies while Patrick hisses from the sting of it. Then he grabs the gauze from the first-aid kit and wraps it around his hands, then covers his knees in big band-aids. 

When he’s mostly cleaned up, Art forces him to stand so he can make sure he didn’t miss any glass anywhere else. Satisfied, he leads Patrick to his bedroom and helps him strip out of his clothes. He grabs a soft t-shirt Patrick to slip over his head, then gets changed himself, before hitting the lights. 

“Art,” he whimpers, finding a hint of courage in the cover of darkness.

“Yeah, Patrick?”

“Why—why don’t my parents love me?”

Art chokes back a whimper of his own, and pulls Patrick into his arms. He holds him close while Patrick sobs against his shoulder, dampening the fresh shirt he just put on. 

And maybe it’s not a fair question to ask. But Art just shushes him, rubbing soothing circles over his back. 

“I—I don’t know, Patrick. They’re idiots, though. You’re the most lovable person I’ve ever met. And they must be fucking blind not to see that. But hey, I love you, right? And my grandma loves you, and Peggy loves you.” Somehow, Patrick cries harder at that. Once the floodgates opened, he lost any hope of controlling himself. “And no matter what your parents say, it’s not because of you. It’s all because of them . You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re so good , Patrick. You’re smart and you’re nice and you’re so talented. You’re so good, and—and I love you.” 

Patrick presses his face further into the divot of Art’s neck, and Art just cups his hand over the back of his head and keeps him there while he loses it.

When he was ten, after the first night with the belt, he swore he’d never cry because of his parents. Not again. He didn’t cry the first time his dad actually hit him, or the time he broke his arm, or any time in between. But now, thanks to the alcohol and weed and Art holding him tight, he cries. He cries for every time he never let himself before. 

Not letting go, Art gently maneuvers him to the bed, until they’re both under the covers.

Art pulls Patrick against him, tucking his face back into that spot against his neck, and holds him like he’ll never fucking let go. Their legs tangle together, and Art twists his fingers in Patrick’s hair. When they start their soothing massage, Patrick feels sleep drag him down, just like it always does when Art does this for him. Despite the full-body sobs still tearing out of his chest, he passes out with the scent of Art in his nose and his body wrapped around his own, too exhausted to fight it. 

* * *

The next morning, no one brings it up. Not Art, not Patrick, not his father. He can tell Art wants to, but he doesn’t. Always knowing when not to push.

It stays that way, a dirty little secret, all the way to the grave. 

2006 – Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy – Richmond, Virginia

By the time Art and Patrick are in their senior year, they’re set in their decisions for life post-academy. 

Patrick will be joining up on the professional circuit, where he’ll enter into whatever ITF tournaments and challengers he can qualify for, and start building his rank. 

Art, despite Patrick’s insistence—and at times near-begging—that he join him, will be moving across the country to Palo Alto, where he’ll play college tennis. Like a schmuck.

As much as Patrick wishes that Art would see things his way and abandon Stanford to come on tour with him and continue to play doubles with him, he knows that Art won’t. 

His grandmother is ecstatic that Art got into such a good school. And with a full tennis scholarship to boot. She can’t stop gushing about it, how proud she is of Art, how it’s all she’s ever wanted for him. 

Patrick never stood a fucking chance. 

What confuses Patrick, though, is that somehow even his parents catch wind of Art’s exciting news. 

Neither his mother nor his father let him live it down. His mother more concerned about his education, his father more concerned about the optics of not having a college degree. 

They call him nearly every week—way more often than they have the entire time he’s been a student here—just to passive aggressively share their disappointment in him. 

Yale has a tennis team, you know. 

You really think you can make a career out of tennis? As if you’re actually good enough?

Why can’t you be like your sister? Or your little friend? Stanford is an excellent school.

You’re an embarrassment, thinking you’re too good for a college degree. 

Where did we go wrong with you?

It weighs on him, as the year goes on. Plants seeds of doubt in his mind. 

Is he actually good enough to make it? Or is he making a huge fucking mistake?

It’s not like he has anything else to offer the world. All he knows how to do is hit a ball with a fucking racket. 

New York City

When he and Art win the Junior Doubles Tournament, and he wins the Junior Boys Singles at the US Open, he knows he’s good enough. 

He’s Patrick fucking Zweig , the most promising male player coming out of the Juniors events. The entire world of tennis is completely open to him, and he’s in the best possible place to go pro. He knows it in his fucking bones. 

In his victory high he calls his parents to tell them, to finally show them that he has something to offer, something they can be proud of, but they don’t pick up.

They don’t even bother to call him back. 

Peggy calls, says she watched the match. She says he was a force to be reckoned with. 

Art’s grandmother calls. Says how proud she is of him and Art for their spectacular games. Says he’s a star in the making. 

But his parents never call. His sister never calls.

And it’s okay. He’s eighteen years old—he doesn’t need them anymore. And they certainly never needed him, unless it served their ruse of being a happy family . 

Besides, he has a huge career ahead of him, Tashi Duncan’s motherfucking phone number, and his best friend by his side for a few more months. 

He’ll be just fine. Great, even. He doesn’t need anything else.

Chapter Text

September 14, 2019 – Darien, Connecticut 

The Wake

On Saturday morning, Tashi dutifully arranges for a car to drive the three of them from their New York City hotel—from which they were able to extend their stay easily—to Patrick’s hometown. Even with heavy city traffic, it only takes an hour and a half. 

With each passing moment in the car—the three of them unnecessarily piled up in the backseat together—the air around Patrick gets thinner and thinner. The entropy of his cells increases with each second, leaving him simultaneously overwrought and utterly burned-out, feeling like a pile of ash while a fire continues blazing around him. 

He tries to distract himself from the jittery nerves, coming up with elaborate visions of alien invasions, or the zombie apocalypse. A three-hundred car pileup that doesn’t cause enough damage to kill them but is enough of an inconvenience to derail their trip. A tsunami, destroying the entire east coast and sweeping the highway completely underwater. 

Instead, the cheerful Welcome to Darien! town sign mocks him, as well as the bright, cloudless blue sky above it. 

He has to grit his teeth against a phantom pain flaring in his ribs. For a moment, the expansion of his lungs feels labored, incomplete. Consciously, he has to force steady inhalations, to assure himself that everything works properly, that he’s able to move air and breathe like a normal person. 

At least focusing on his breaths offers a short-term distraction from the car’s imminent approach to their destination. 

He hasn’t been back here since that night, and has tried to block any and all memories from ever resurfacing in his mind. 

Apparently his body didn’t get the same memo. 

Beside him, Tashi squeezes his thigh, then slides her hand gently into his, as if she can sense his growing discomfort. 

“You okay?” She asks, somehow concerned and perfectly composed all at once. 

He grips her fingers tight—so small intertwined in his—but doesn’t say anything. 

He doesn’t have it in himself to lie. 

All he can do is shut his eyes to block out the familiar sights of his hometown, and lean his head back against the headrest. Trying to focus on the steady weight of Tashi’s hand in his, rather than the deafening echo of his heart in his ears. 

Fuck, he doesn’t even know why he’s so nervous—it’s not like his father is going to jump of of the casket and shove him in there alongside him. 

Truth be told, he’s been on edge all fucking week. Moody. Distracted. An absolute peach to be around, he’s sure. 

The three of them collectively decided to stay in Manhattan until the wake—well, Tashi decided. Patrick went along with it, for lack of any other ideas. 

Since the city is close enough to Connecticut it really did make more sense than flying back to the Donaldson home base in California for a few days, only to turn around and come right back to the east coast. 

They’re lucky that Tashi’s mom was willing to take Lily back with her, since she needed to get back to school after missing a week to watch Art in the Open. Patrick honestly feels guilty that she’ll be without her parents for an entire week, all because of him. Great way to get on her good side, when she’s already a little skittish around him—this newcomer who seemingly showed up overnight and hasn’t left since.  

The week passed with him running drills with Tashi practically all day every day. He welcomed the physical demand, the way he could just shut his brain down and focus on doing whatever Tashi told him to. 

He’d also taken to going on long, winding runs through Central Park every morning. Keeping his body in a constant state of movement became his escape. It wore him out enough that he was at least more tolerable to be around in a basic sense. 

Not that Art or Tashi even complained about him. In fact, they spent the week doting on him, and checking on him, and watching him with their fucking attentive eyes—he nearly started to feel suffocated in the midst of their attention. 

And it’s not fucking fair , because he has spent so much of his life dying for this exact thing, and now that he has it he physically can’t let himself accept it. He’s all fucked up about it. 

The worst part—what has him feeling the most batshit insane—is that anything beyond a basic touch has him nearly crawling out of his fucking skin. He honestly wishes he had it in him to laugh about it, but he’s afraid if he does he might actually start to cry and maybe then he’d never stop. 

The three of them are finally alone—no team, no trainers, no family around—and they haven’t even had sex in over a week . Because of Patrick . 

He’s always been a tactile sort of guy—a fact that both Art and Tashi know firsthand. It’s not a wild jump to think that he’d respond well to physical comfort for something like this. Hell, in the past he has responded well to physical comfort. Like him and Art snuggling in their room or Art running his hand through Patrick’s hair when he was upset. Or Tashi getting him out of his mind after a tough loss with her sharp words and fiery touches. 

Or even the multitude of bed-mates he sought temporary companionship with over the years, either as a form of self-medication or self-sabotage. 

Point is, he’s always been a touchy person. So it fucked him up when the first couple gentle attempts at intimacy this week—a kiss deeper than a chaste peck, a too-wandering hand, a lingering touch of fingertips—left him feeling keyed up and trapped; or worse, stuck in his own head. Drowning in memories of painful blows or unspoken transactional touches from near-strangers. No matter how hard he tried to stay in the present, he just couldn’t , even when the touches lacked intention for anything further.  

And of course, neither Art or Tashi pushed him. They didn’t even seem upset, other than in response to him being upset, which, understandable. Patrick thinks Art and Tashi are probably their own level of fucked up over it, given the poor way Patrick has responded. He’d feel conflicted if someone froze up at his touch, too. So really, they’re doing better than he can say he would in their shoes. 

Still, after about two days of it they all stopped trying, keeping their hands mostly to themselves. Even between the two of them. 

Patrick started running in the evenings, too. Once it became clear that his body wouldn’t let him release his tension the only other way he knows how. 

He could tell that Tashi started worrying about him over-exerting himself, mentally preparing how she’d coach an injured player, but she kept any vocal concerns quiet. He thinks she gets it, the need to push his body past its physical limits to quiet his mind. They’ve always been similar in that way. 

But there's still a small, nagging corner of his brain that whispers that if he’s not having sex with them, it’s only a matter of time before they’ll get tired of him and cast him aside again. 

What else does he even have to offer? All he’s done for the past week is literally run from his problems and avoid the two of them, all while mooching off their money and their kindness, no less. Why would they bother to keep him around much longer? 

It’s not like they made him any vows. No for better or worse , or sickness and health bullshit. Who’s to say they won’t decide that all of this is more trouble than he’s worth? Hell, in the grand scheme of things no one in the tennis world would even blame Tashi for dumping her new player—not when it’s someone like him . A nobody who peaked in high school and let his career die before it could even start.

In the car, his legs start to tingle from being cramped for so long. He still ran this morning, but Tashi called it at running drills. Sitting still this long isn’t doing him any favors, though, especially with the decreasing distance to their destination. Like the closer they get, the more his anxiety amps up.

His palm starts to sweat against Tashi’s, itching to drop it. 

He forces himself to hold on tighter. 

Even with his eyes closed, he can tell when they arrive at his parents’ house, as if the barometric pressure shifts around him, like before a big storm. Or how the room goes cold in the presence of a ghost. 

As the car pulls to a stop, Patrick forces in a shaky breath. He can fucking do this. His father is gone . Nothing that happens today can be worse than what he’s already lived through. 

He opens his eyes. 

The exterior of the house looks exactly the same as it always has, an ungodly ornate palace—but just as sterile and lifeless as ever, even in its old-money luxury. People dressed in black make their way to the door, some carrying casserole dishes, some empty-handed. 

As if his mother would eat a stranger’s casserole. Ha. 

Tashi remains beside him, and Art beside her, while they let him linger in the car for just a moment, before she asks, “You ready?”

Another deep breath—he can fucking do this —and he gets out of the car. 

Tashi slips out behind him while Art opens the door on his side. He quickly makes his way over to Patrick, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, listen,” he says, angling his head so he’s right in Patrick’s line of sight. “We’ll follow your lead, okay? Whenever you wanna leave, we’ll go. If you need us to run interference, we will.”

Patrick nods, half to convince himself of Art’s words. 

“Fuck,” he barks out, frustrated with himself. “I feel fucking crazy, man. This is so stupid.”

“You’re not crazy. Well, not because of this, anyway,” Art teases, trying to get a smile out of Patrick, no doubt. “But seriously. There’s no right way to do this, man. It’s all fucked.”

“Can you not be so fucking reasonable all the time?” He shoots back, trying to match Art’s teasing tone. Art still smiles, even when it mostly falls flat.

“Someone’s gotta be,” Tashi adds. “And it’s clearly not you, so…”

“Wow, thanks so much, Tash. Really love being kicked while I’m down.” She flicks him in the ear, then is quick to soothe the sting with a gentle caress of her fingers. That gets a mostly-real smile to rise on his face, before promptly falling when he remembers where he is. 

“Fuck,” he repeats, resigned. “Let’s get this fucking over with.”

Walking through the front door, Patrick is hit with a weird sense of something that feels like an overtly negative version of nostalgia. He honestly thought he’d never see this town, this house, ever again. It’s weirding him out, being back like this. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hears Tashi whisper behind him, a hint of awe obvious in her voice.

“I know right? The first time I came here I think I was in shock for like, a week.” 

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yeah, I came home with Patrick—what? The summer before sophomore year?”

“Junior,” Patrick mindlessly corrects, as they make their way to the main sitting room, where he’s sure people are gathered. 

“Right, right.”

“That’s cute—you guys spending the summers together. How was it?” 

Art’s silence is damning. There’s a reason they opted to stay in his grandma’s empty house back in Ohio the next summer. 

“It was… mostly good.”

Mostly good , except for the night of the Fourth of July party, he doesn’t say. Honestly, Art probably remembers more of that night than Patrick does, and he’s almost-certainly replaying it in his head now. 

“Uh-huh,” Tashi drawls, clearly picking up on the fact that something is going unsaid, but thankfully deciding not to prod further. 

Patrick can tell that it’s starting to grate on her, being in the dark regarding basically everything related to Patrick’s family. He just… hasn’t been ready to talk about it. He (stupidly) thinks—or hopes?—that maybe if he never brings it up, Tashi will never ask, and all can just be forgotten once this weekend passes. They can just go back to how things were a week ago, back to their honeymoon phase.

For his part, Art still hasn’t said anything either, as far as Patrick can tell. Though he can see how difficult it is for him to purposefully keep something from her. Especially something like this. 

Really, it’s only a matter of time before someone explodes, succumbing to the pressure of keeping everything bottled in, or being purposefully kept in the dark. 

In the main sitting room, Patrick can’t stop his eyes from scanning the attendees. The wake is apparently privately reserved for friends and family before the actual funeral tomorrow, which will be open to the public. 

He looks around, not immediately recognizing anyone gathered to mourn—or celebrate his father’s life , he thinks around a shiver. 

Feels more appropriate to celebrate his fucking death, but when has anyone listened to Patrick’s opinion away. 

Part of him almost feels like this is some elaborate prank, or a sting operation, and his father is going to storm in this room full of people with a shotgun aimed right at his head, screaming I told you to never come back here you fucking fag — 

“I didn’t think you’d actually show up.” 

He’s startled out of his miasmic reverie by a familiar voice behind him. 

“Hello to you too, Maddie,” he mutters sardonically, reluctantly turning to face her. 

It’s striking, how much they look alike. Both with their mother’s eyes and father’s dark curly hair. Her features are softer than his, sure, but they’re unmistakably cut from the same cloth. 

He remembers, with a sharp pang, how he used to imagine that he was switched at birth. It’s almost laughable that in his childhood musings he even thought it could be a possibility. Not for the first time, his heart hurts for that innocent kid, waiting for the day his parents would notice him, trying to find the tiniest thread to hold onto connecting him to something greater. 

She’s almost as tall as him, just shy a few inches. He uses the height difference to purposefully look down at her, trying to level the playing field, already knowing how this is going to play out.

“Hello, Patrick,” she replies. 

“Been a while,” he remarks, for lack of anything else to say. 

Aiming for—not agreeable, per se—but, neutral? He’s already spending way more emotional energy than he cares to admit just being in this house, so he really doesn’t care to waste what little control he has arguing with his sister. 

It had been foolish to think he simply show up and avoid any fucking drama. 

“Has it? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Look, Maddie, can we not? Do this— ” he says, waving a noncommittal hand between them “—here? Now?”

“Do what? I’m just surprised that you’re actually here, is all. Given how much you apparently hate this family.”

Likely sensing Patrick’s growing defensiveness, Art—God bless him—takes it upon himself to insert himself into their conversation, before he gets the chance to respond.

“Hi, I don’t think we’ve actually met. You’re Patrick’s sister, right?” 

Maddie nods, lips rising in a way so reminiscent of their father’s politician smile that it nearly gives Patrick heart palpitations. 

“Madeline,” she says, sticking her hand out to Art to shake. “And you are…?”

“Art—Donaldson,” he adds, after a moment of hesitation. “And this is my wife, Tashi,” he gestures to Tashi beside him, who likewise reaches out to shake her hand. “Patrick and I lived together during school.”

“Oh, that’s right. You got sent to that boarding school,” she replies, looking at Patrick again, voice laced with underhanded judgment. 

Christ, he’s already itching to get out of this conversation. His mind starts wandering again—imagining a sinkhole opening up beneath his feet. A strike of lightning hitting him square in the chest, shocking his heart right into cardiac arrest. 

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Art says, in lieu of a response. Always one to be diplomatic. 

Maddie nearly chokes up at that, and Patrick actively has to fight against the urge to roll his eyes at the rapid switch of her emotions. 

“Thank you, Art. That’s nice to hear,” she says, shooting Patrick another pointed glare. 

After a moment, Tashi pipes up. “So, Madeline, what is it that you do?”

Patrick can tell that Tashi is picking up on the undercurrents of tension between them. He sends her a burst of tired gratitude for bringing the focus back to Maddie, and away from Patrick. 

She thankfully jumps at the opportunity to go into her spiel, about how she’s a well-esteemed pediatric surgeon and the long journey it took for her to get there. Mentioning her husband, who she met at work, she waves him over. 

Patrick has met him only twice—for the first time at the wedding, then again at the fundraiser in 2015—but fuck if he can remember his name. Chris or Carl or Chance or something. 

Patrick has nothing against the guy—other than willingly entering this fucking family. Really, he seems like a normal dude. Maybe a little cocky, but hey, who is Patrick to judge. 

“Charles, you remember Patrick, right? My little brother.” 

“Oh right, hey man. How are you doing?” Charles reaches out a hand to shake, clearly unbothered by the blatant condescension in his wife’s voice. 

And what the fuck is it with the handshakes ? This is a fucking wake, not a networking event. Why does he feel like he’s at a job interview, or something?

Patrick nods in greeting, muttering a quiet “hey,” and nothing else. 

Charles looks over to Art and Tashi, face lighting up with recognition. “Oh shit! I thought you looked familiar—you’re Art Donaldson, right?”

Art’s face perks up a bit with surprise, but he quickly regains composure as reaches out his hand too. “Yeah, nice to meet you.”

“You know him?” Maddie asks her husband, not hiding her confusion.

“He won the US Open last week,” he says to Maddie, before turning back to Art. “Congrats, man. Great game. You know, I used to play tennis back in high school. Gave it up before college, though. Had to focus on studying.” 

Art nods with a tight smile on his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever-so-slightly with discomfort. 

“Honestly, you probably made the right call. Being a doctor is way more stable than playing tennis, I’m sure,” he half-heartedly jokes. 

Charles turns to Patrick, “Damn man, I didn’t realize you were that kind of tennis player.”

“Oh, he’s not,” Maddie cuts in, as if she knows any fucking thing about his career. 

Having a fucking dick-measuring contest with his older sister wasn’t in his plans for the day, but he probably should’ve anticipated it with how Maddie always felt the need to one-up him when they were younger. He just doesn’t know why it’s grating on him so much now , when he’d always been one to let her comments roll right off his back. 

Art jumps back in, with a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “He’ll be the one to watch next year, mark my words. Tashi is one hell of a coach.” 

“So, you two are both doctors? Is that how you met?” Tashi asks, doing her best to quickly change the subject again, clearly not wanting any extra attention on her, either.

Patrick lets out a little breath of relief. Art squeezes his shoulder reassuringly before dropping his hand back to his side. It takes everything in Patrick to not lean into Art, chasing the touch.

Maddie and Charles go on about how they met, about how he was an attending physician while she was a resident, how he trained her and how they started subsequently dating. Art and Tashi listen—or at least convincingly pretend to listen—while they talk about being married, having their daughter. 

All Patrick can do is fight to stay in his own head. His eyes unfocus while his ears stop listening, until Art’s voice draws him back. 

“Huh,” he muses. “How Grey’s Anatomy .”

Maddie’s eyes sharpen, and Patrick almost has to stifle an amused, nonplussed smile. Suddenly, he’s so grateful that Art is here with him, the little shit.

Charles does laugh, much to Maddie’s chagrin, Patrick is sure. 

“So, how old is your daughter?” Tashi asks—first real trace of interest piquing her voice.

“She’s seven.” Maddie and Charles share a smile between them. 

Tashi smiles—”Oh, our daughter is six,” she gestures between herself and Art, clearly trying to find some common ground between them. 

Maddie’s smile turns snide, borderline mean. “Wow, you must have had her so young! We had to wait until I became an attending myself before we could even think about kids. I spent so many years becoming a doctor, and we were both married to our careers for so long.”

Art responds, voice uncharacteristically laced with passive aggressiveness. “Well, we didn’t let our careers stop us.” He looks around the room, eyes twitching at the corners again. “Now, if you could excuse us, we’re going to go pay our respects.”

And with that, Art starts to retreat, gesturing for Patrick and Tashi to follow. 

“What a fucking bitch,” Tashi mutters under her breath, low enough for only Patrick and Art to hear. 

He snorts a bitter, tired laugh. 

They head further into the room, near the display of photographs of Patrick’s father and the fucking casket along the wall. 

The sight makes his blood go cold, nearly stopping him in his tracks. From where he stands he can’t quite see into the casket, but knowing who’s inside is enough to have his gut curdling unpleasantly. His eyes lock on the expensive-looking dark wood while he remains frozen in place. 

Fight, flight, freeze. He never learned to adapt, did he? Even now, he’s still that fucking possum playing dead in the presence of Richard Zweig. 

How the fuck did he not notice the casket when they entered the room? Was it here the whole time? Unseen while he suffered through that conversation with Maddie? And now that he thinks about it, aren’t these sorts of things supposed to happen in, like, funeral homes or something? Why is the body fucking here ? In the middle of the house? 

“Do you want to look?” Art asks, startling him out of his spiral. 

“I—” he falters. Does he?

He doesn’t, but he also knows that part of him will never believe it until he sees it. Proof that his father is gone. 

Without a word, he approaches the casket. 

It’s not what he imagined. In his head, his father would look exactly how Patrick remembered him. Face curled up in anger, with that vein popping out of his forehead and his hands clenched in a fist. Or even his politician mask, smile fake and saccharine, always playing the part of the dutiful family man and servant to the people. 

In reality, he looks… wrong. Older than Patrick remembers, yeah, but all smoothed out. Artificially still. Pale, but rosy-cheeked. From the make-up, he realizes. 

His dark curls are trim and riddled with gray. His body is lax, fingers curling softly against the white satin of the casket. His nose and ears, though, are exactly the same. Patrick unconsciously rubs his fingers over the shell of his own ear. Is this what he’ll look like too, when he dies? Plastic and painted, embalmed with a permanent mask, too-calm and too-still to be natural? 

The thought is enough to have him backing away from the casket without a parting glance. Heart hammering in his chest, he’s transported back to a moment in time where the abstract possibility of him lying in that casket was almost a reality. When he couldn’t even fathom making it to thirty-one, one way or another. 

Running a nervous hand through his hair—also starting to speckle with gray, but barely —he clears the thickness from his throat and makes his way back to Tashi and Art, where they’re chatting quietly near a cluster of photographs, having given him some privacy.

Art clasps his shoulder again, cognizant of how many eyes are around and how much physical contact they could feasibly get away with. It’s not enough, but Patrick will take whatever he can get. The heavy weight of Art’s hand keeps him grounded, at least. He focuses on the heat from all five fingers against his shirt, the warmth from his palm. 

The three of them linger for a few moments around the display, Art and Tashi still mindlessly chatting. While Patrick considers how bad it would look to just up and leave now , before he feels a soft tap on his free shoulder. 

“Patrick? Honey?”

His eyes widen at the familiar, though slightly more frail, voice. No one ever called him honey, except—

“Peggy?” He gapes, turning around to face her. 

He bends down to wrap her up in his arms, so gentle but no less eager. She rubs her small hands up and down his back, before pulling away to look at his face, keeping her palms on his upper arms. 

She looks—god, so much older —but honestly still good. She’s a few years older than his parents, but she doesn’t look a day over sixty-five. She’s rounded out a little, and her face is lined a bit deeper, but her eyes are still the same. Still looking at Patrick with that same familiar warmth like she did fifteen, twenty years ago. 

“Oh, honey, it’s so good to see you,” she says, releasing his arm with one hand and using it to cup his cheek. He bends down a little more, leaning into the touch. 

“It—it’s good to see you, too.” He can’t help the layers of shock in his voice—he didn’t even consider the fact that she’d be here, as self-absorbed as he’d been all week. 

She looks over his shoulder, and seems to notice Art and Tashi off to his side. 

“And is that Art Donaldson?” She asks, releasing him to pull Art into a hug of his own. “How are you, dear? Congratulations on your big win! I was rooting for you the whole time!” 

Art has a look of wonder and amusement on his face, probably surprised that she remembers him all these years later. 

“Hi Peggy.” 

She releases Art, then turns her enthusiasm all on Tashi. 

“And you must be Tashi! Oh honey, you’re even more gorgeous in person than you are on TV. What a catch, Art.” The three of them smile at that, albeit incredulously, while Peggy wraps Tashi up. 

“Wow, Pegs, I didn’t realize you kept up with tennis all these years,” Patrick says, shock still coloring his voice. 

“Of course I did, especially when this one started blowing up,” she says, nodding to Art, which makes him flush a light pink. 

“Oh wow,” Art smiles, a little bittersweet, mind probably straying to his grandma, how she never got to watch his rise in the tennis world. “That means a lot, that you kept up with us like that.”

Tashi looks lost, eyes wide and eyebrows downturned slightly. Patrick dumbly realizes she probably has no idea what is going on, that she never met Peggy, even though she clearly knows Tashi. 

“Tashi, this is Peggy,” Patrick introduces. “She was technically my nanny, but don’t be fooled. She practically raised me.” 

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m sure you had your hands full with him,” she teases. 

“Oh, Patrick was just the sweetest little boy. An angel, ninety-percent of the time. Sure he had a bit of a rough patch, but honestly, what kid doesn't?” 

He looks away then, a little embarrassed. 

“And, can I just say—I am so glad to see that you two sorted everything out,” she adds, looking between Patrick and Art. Patrick turns back toward her, confused. He never mentioned to her that he and Art stopped talking, that they had any sort of falling out. 

“How did you…?”

“Oh honey, I could tell. You were so depressed at your sister’s wedding. So quiet. And when you shut down after I asked you about Art, I could tell that something was wrong. Ever since you two met, you could never stop talking about that boy.”

Art and Patrick both glance at each other then, twin expressions of guilt and regret covering their faces, with an added layer of embarrassment on Patrick’s. 

He didn’t realize he’d been that obvious about it, how deeply their separation affected him. Or before that, how infatuated he’d been. He clears his throat, disrupting the tickle settling in. “Yeah, we, uh—we figured it out eventually,” he responds to Peggy, while looking at Art. 

He feels Peggy’s hand on his arm again, where she squeezes gently. 

“Do you two mind if I steal Patrick away for a few moments? It’s just been so long.”

Art nods in affirmation, while Tashi replies a soft “of course.”

Peggy leads him through the house, away from any listening ears, out toward the sunroom. They settle in a set of chairs by the window, warm with sunlight streaming through. 

She takes a moment to look at him, gaze silently searching, before she softly utters, “I really am glad to see you here. I have to admit, I didn’t think I would.”

Patrick's lips twitch, not having the energy to fake a smile. He never had to fake it with Peggy, though. Not when he was disappointed by his mother’s absence at another dinner, or when his father yelled at him or punished him.

“Yeah, well… I didn’t think I’d be here either.” He lets out a soft breath, before admitting, “I don’t think he would’ve wanted me here anyway.” 

“You’re being the bigger person, honey. Trust that it counts for something.”

He hums, gaze catching on the garden outside the window. 

“How are you doing? Really ?” 

He sucks in a breath, shoulders tensing up toward his ears. “What—what do you mean?”

She doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t clarify. Instead, she simply looks out the window herself, voice going a little bit distant. 

“I want you to know how sorry I am that I didn’t reach out to you more. Once you graduated from high school, and you stopped coming around, I figured you didn’t want any reminders of the past, and I couldn’t say I blamed you.” She shakes her head, a slow, regretful motion. “I didn’t want to intrude, if that’s what you wanted. Though, looking back… I should’ve insisted we stay in touch. 

“When I saw you at Madeline’s wedding—honey, I was so worried for you. You were just a shell of that sweet boy I watched grow up. But I was worried that if I tried to push you that it would only do more harm than good. And I’m sorry, Patrick, because I think I should’ve pushed. I should have been there for you.” 

Pressure starts to build behind his eyes, against his throat. His vision starts to blur with the rapid rise of unshed tears. 

“You know I—I stopped working for your parents after the wedding. Once I realized that you weren’t coming back. But I want you to know that I only stayed for you. I knew what your father was doing, and Patrick—” she grabs his hand, squeezing until he looks her in the eyes “—my only regret in life is that I didn’t do anything to stop it.”

“No, no, Peggy, I don’t—I don’t blame you. You couldn’t have done anything,” he feels frantic, trying to assure her. And he doesn’t blame her. Not at all. 

If anything, she’s the reason he had any good in his life at all. Being a comforting presence in his childhood, indirectly keeping him in tennis, then being the reason he ended up at Mark Rebellato—the place he met Art, then Tashi… 

No, he doesn’t blame her one bit, and the idea of her blaming herself cuts like a gash to the heart.

“I know I don’t have to tell you, but your father… He was larger than life, at times. He felt untouchable. I didn’t do anything about it because I didn’t want to make it worse for you, and I didn’t want to not be around in case it did.”

He squeezes her hand, so cold and fragile clutched in his own. 

“As far as your mother goes… I’ve known her for a long time. Often, I considered her a friend. But I know that she can be a cold woman,” with the hand not still gripping his, she gently cradles his cheek again. “But I never, never understood why she couldn’t see what a gift she had in you.” 

Her thumb wipes away the rogue tears that escape, before he even realizes that they’re dripping down his cheeks. 

He lets out a watery, self-deprecating laugh. “You know,” he sniffs. “When I was a kid I used to pretend that you were my mom.”

She smiles at that, though it’s seeped in melancholy. 

“You know that I never had children of my own. You’re already the closest thing I’ll ever have to a son, and I couldn’t be more proud of who you’ve become.”

He moves his head back, looking down at his lap, forcing her to lower her hand from his face.

“I, uh—I haven’t done much to be proud of.” 

“Honey, you’re still so young . And even being here, despite everything , is enough for me to be proud of you, so let that thought go.” He nods, gazing back at the garden. “When I look at you, I can tell that life hasn’t been kind to you, but you still have so much life left to live. You deserve to find your happiness, Patrick. Don’t let this family take anything else from you, okay?” 

He’s helpless against the fresh round of tears threatening to escape. 

“I, um… I’m working on it,” he chokes out, trying to give her a reassuring smile. 

She pulls him into another hug, a little awkward from the way they’re still seated, and he really tries to take her words to heart. 

* * *

They remain in the sunroom for a few moments longer, switching to considerably lighter topics while Patrick works to compose himself. It pains him to admit that he forgot how much she meant to him. That he never realized how much he missed her. 

Once he’s certain that he won’t spontaneously burst into tears, the two of them make their way back to the main room. 

She sends him off to rejoin Art and Tashi, but not before wrapping him up in one last embrace. 

“Let them make you happy, honey. You deserve it,” she whispers in his ear. 

He can’t help the jolt of panic rushing through him, but it’s immediately stifled by the sweet, loving look on her face when he pulls away. 

Before he can even get caught up in his thoughts, wondering if they’re too obvious, or over-analyzing every interaction they’ve had over the past month, Peggy says, “I can just tell.”

With that, she leaves him, struck stupid in the middle of the room. He distractedly starts toward Art and Tashi, until he realizes that there’s a third person in their conversation. He stops short, trying to puzzle out who he is, why he looks so familiar , before he’s noticed by them. 

“Patrick, hey!” The guys exclaims, weirdly peppy given the somber nature of the day. 

He must pick up on Patrick’s confusion, because he points to himself, smile brightening as he clarifies, “It’s Peter, man! From the country club?”

“Oh shit. Of course, man, sorry.” He steps closer, greeting Patrick with one of those bro-hugs, which, weird . Now that he actually looks, he can see the familiar features of his old friend on this guy’s face. God, he hasn’t seen Peter since… his first summer back from Mark Rebellato? 

He looks at Art and Tashi, who seem to be watching them with amused looks on their faces, with subtle, ever-present hints of concern. He probably looks like a fucking mess, after nearly crying like a baby. “Am I interrupting?”

“Dude! I knew you went to that fancy tennis school, but I didn’t realize you were friends with Art fucking Donaldson!” He swings his gaze back over to Art, at the sheepish expression on his face. Patrick can tell that when he offered to run interference, he wasn’t anticipating being recognized like this multiple times at a fucking funeral.  

“We were just hearing about what a trouble-maker you were back in the day,” Tashi teases, nudging him playfully. 

Traces of unease start tightening Patrick’s shoulders at that, despite the lighthearted tone of her voice. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm. Peter here was just telling us about your failed attempt at stealing a golf cart?”

He swallows back the shame at the memory of that night—not so much because of what he did, but more what came later. He forces his lips into one of his signature smirks, against the phantom taste of blood in his mouth. “Well, it wasn’t a failed attempt. I did steal a golf cart. I just got caught like, two minutes later.” 

“Shit man, Chris and I felt so bad after that. You’re dad was a scary motherfucker, I’d hate to make him mad. I still get chills thinking about how pissed he must’ve been.”

Peter must interpret the incredulous expression on his face incorrectly, because he is quick to apologize. “Fuck, sorry man. I’m sorry for your loss, didn’t mean to bring him up like that.”

He’s not going to admit that he started getting lost in a recollection of just how much of a scary motherfucke r his father could really be. He spares a glance at Art, before muttering a soft “no worries, dude,” to Peter, as if any levity has been sucked right out of the room.

They keep talking for a while—Peter explains how he’s a lawyer now, “keeping it in the family business,” he jokes. His parents are still members at the club, so they stayed in touch with Patrick’s over the years, still running in the same circles. He even shows them pictures of his pretty wife, who’s at home with their newborn son. 

It’s surreal, seeing parts of his past integrate like this. Art and Peter’s presences in his life barely overlapped, and for some reason he’s having trouble keeping the years straight in his mind.

The disorientation of it, mixed with the raw remnants left from his earlier conversations with his sister, then Peggy, has him feeling completely drained. Physically and emotionally. He thinks he starts nearly dissociating, the longer the conversation continues. His mind drifts away to different points in time, until they all blur together into one blob of memories. 

Patrick doesn’t even register when Peter finally leaves. 

“Hey,” Art prods, until Patrick has the wherewithal to look at him. “You wanna go?”

“ Yes ,” he sighs, relieved. He didn’t even realize how badly he does until Art offered, how much it feels like the walls of this massive palace are closing in around him. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

He wastes no time in turning back toward the hallway that leads to the main foyer, desperate to leave the stifling energy of the wake behind him. 

Art and Tashi’s footsteps follow him, a mirror of their arrival god-knows how long ago. Could’ve been hours or mere minutes ago, but it doesn’t fucking matter because at least he showed up at all. 

It unnerves him, how the house looks exactly the same as he remembered it. Walls lined with expensive abstract paintings, elaborate bookshelves adorned with priceless artifacts. A noticeable lack of personality—no family photos, personal knick-knacks, proof of life. 

It’s honestly why he liked spending the summers at Art’s place. When he walked into the house he could feel the personality, the warmth, the love embedded in the walls. Even in the clutter collecting dust, Patrick could tell that a family lived there, even if it was just the two of them. Art’s house felt like a home—which is something he’d always been searching for. 

There’s a distinct coldness in the air—a lack of warmth surrounding him. It seeps into his bones, along with the knowledge that he’ll never step foot in these walls again, after today. He had already resigned himself to that years ago, but returning today gave him the final push he needed to fully let it sink in. 

There’s nothing for him here, and really, there never has been. A point that is, unfortunately, reinforced by the sight of his own mother, standing by the front door.

One final obstacle preventing his departure. Of fucking course. 

Unlike his father, she does look exactly as he remembered—almost eerily so. Completely composed and perfectly put-together, she does not look like a woman who suddenly lost her husband. She’s always been hard to read though, especially for Patrick. A young boy desperate for his mother’s love and attention, never receiving enough to stifle the longing.

She sometimes had moments, where he thought he’d finally broken through to her, like when she suddenly started caring about his grades, or the morning after his father hit him for the first time. When she clocked the bruise on his face, and almost looked like she cared. 

He wonders if his father ever told her why Patrick stopped coming around for good. Or if she even cared. 

At the end of the day, nothing changes the fact that she cared more about her career than her son. That she knew—at least a fraction—about what went on between Patrick and his father, and did nothing to stop it. 

Did nothing to help him. 

She made her choice, but it still burns deep and shameful in Patrick’s gut all the same. 

He swallows back frustration at knowing that he can’t evade her, that he has to acknowledge her in order to leave. He’d honestly thought they could make a clean getaway, could manage to avoid her completely—at least until tomorrow. 

He doesn’t have much left to give at this point, not today. Not anymore.

When her eyes finally meet his—greenish blue, with the thinnest stellate band of brown around the pupil, an exact replica of his own—he can’t help the instinct to look down at his feet. His teeth clack painfully from the petulant clench of his jaw. 

“Patrick, I was wondering if we’d be seeing you today,” her gaze flips between Patrick, and Art and Tashi behind him, as if she’s trying to ascertain the nature of the three of them. 

A harsh, sudden surge of protectiveness rises up in him, a need to shield Art and Tashi from her assessment, her judgment. It’s an echo of how he felt that night with Art, where he wanted nothing more than for Art to leave before he could be tainted by his father’s rage. He doesn’t want his mother’s impassivity toward Patrick to reach them, somehow.

“You didn’t answer my calls,” she continues. 

“Guess I didn’t recognize the number,” he mumbles, rolling his neck around to the left. Actively fighting the tightness coiling in muscles. “It hasn’t popped up on my phone in a while.”

Her lips flatten out, and the tendons on her neck jump for a brief moment, but overall her face remains stoic. 

“So, who are your friends?” She pivots, gesturing behind him, quick to drop that dead thread of conversation. 

“You remember Art, don’t you? He only stayed with us for an entire summer.” He smirks, sharp and dangerous. He tries his hand at Maddie’s tone from earlier—polite, yet infused with sarcasm and condescension. 

The longer he stands face to face with her, the more poorly repressed anger floods his system. He’s not a fucking kid anymore, and he sure as hell doesn’t have to make himself smaller for her. He doesn’t owe her a goddamn thing. 

“Of course I do,” she says, probably convincingly. “Art, how are you? It’s good to see you.”

Art, for his part, looks highly uncomfortable with the rapid shift of the conversation. He looks between Patrick and his mother for a few moments, before plastering his own fake smile on, hesitantly replying and introducing Tashi. 

Patrick half-listens as Art gives his condolences, again . He’s always been better at pretending than Patrick. Hiding his feelings for the benefit of others. It’s something that Patrick grew to envy, as they got older. Patrick wears his feelings on his fucking sleeve—always has—and has never been able to hide behind a mask for long. 

And even if he could hide, he doesn’t have the energy to swallow his feelings back. Resentment, betrayal, indignation—all these huge feelings fester with each passing moment and he doesn’t much care to stop them from boiling over. 

He interrupts whatever it is that Art is saying with a mean, derisive snarl of a laugh. 

“You know, ma, this party really is a bummer.” Three sets of eyes flash up to him simultaneously, all with varying levels of confusion and intrigue. “I mean, shouldn’t we be celebrating?” 

“Patrick,” Art warns, which Patrick ignores. It’s dangerous, the amount of venom he feels the need to spit right now. Not even Art can stop him in his tracks now. He’s a train barreling off the edge of a cliff, and there’s nothing anyone can do to prevent it. 

“No, seriously. I mean,” he says, looking directly at his mother, “I know it’s been a few years since I’ve been to one of your parties, but remember them being much more lively than this.”

Tapping his index finger on his temple, he pretends to wrack his brain, “That last one… what was it? Four years ago? You remember that one, right mom?” He sneers, letting the vitriol completely take over, like he’s being possessed by an evil spirit. He’s dead-set on destruction—he wants so badly for his mother to fucking react, so he can drag her down with him. 

Peggy described her as cold, but Patrick knows firsthand that someone can be cold, with an icy exterior, and still be capable of compassion. Maybe that’s why he gravitated toward Art so much as a kid—because he’s similarly cold but still gave him everything that his mother never did. 

“That was definitely one of your better parties, I’d say. Well, until dad came along, that is,” he steps up closer to her, tilting his head while looking dead in her eyes. “Did he tell you, afterwards? What he did? Why I never came fucking back?”

“Patrick,” she hisses, looking back between Art and Tashi, “this is not appropriate in front of company.” 

Likewise, Patrick glances back at them, too. At their eyes, wide and sheepish, like they also feel uncomfortable being present for this conversation. Still, it only fuels him more. 

Company . Fuck that. 

“Why is that, ma? You worried they’ll get the wrong idea about something? What could that possibly be? You never gave any indication that anyone did anything wrong in this house. Except me, anyway.” 

“Patrick, we can go wait outside, if you—” Tashi starts, but Patrick is quick to interrupt. 

“No, you guys should stay! There’s nothing to hide, right?” He directs the last question back at his mother. “You know, now that I think about it, I had to leave that party pretty suddenly. I’ll bet the cleanup was a bitch though, huh? I mean, I know how hard it is to get blood out of carpet—”

“Enough!” His mother exclaims. “This is your father’s wake . Is this really the place to do this?”

“What?” He asks, feigning naivety, eyes going round and innocent. “I just wanted to share my last memory of him, that’s all. But sure, we can keep pretending everything’s fine. Besides, there never was the right place to bring anything up, was there? Or did you really just not fucking care?”

All at once, her face drops, and she looks every minute of her sixty-seven years. A twisted satisfaction rises at that, at finally getting some indication that he’s struck a nerve. 

“What do you want me to say, Patrick?”

“I think ‘sorry’ would be a good place to start, don’t you?”

When she remains notably silent, it’s like all his rage starts to drain right out of him, leaving him raw and defeated. 

“Of fucking course,” he sighs under his breath. “You work with criminals all fucking day, but God-forbid you acknowledge what went on under your own fucking roof.”

“If it’s this difficult for you, why did you even come? Are you trying to make a mockery of your father’s memory?” 

“You of all people should know how important it is to keep up appearances, right?” He sneers, smirk sharp and menacing. “Trust me, I’m not here for him, or you, or anyone else but myself and my fucking career. And the second the service ends tomorrow you can bet your ass that I’ll never fucking come back.”

With that, he stalks out the door, out of this house and away from every negative memory he has. 

Sensing Art and Tashi trailing behind him, he hightails it toward the black SUV they arrived in. Rather than cramming in the back with them again, he opts for the front passenger seat, needing the physical separation. 

Part of him is still seething, and the other part starts crashing-out. Stuck on an emotional roller-coaster that he never asked to get on in the first place. 

As the driver begins navigating away from the house, Patrick can sense that Art and Tashi are gearing up to say something from the backseat. Before they can, Patrick shuts his eyes and lets out a tired breath. 

“Just… don’t. Please.”

The ride to the hotel is silent. Rather than make the trip back to New York, Tashi figured it would be best to stay a town over in Stamford, since the actual funeral is tomorrow morning and it makes more sense than commuting back and forth from the city. 

Even in the short ten minute drive, Patrick nearly falls into a trance, after reaching every physical and emotional limit he has. 

The hotel is quaint. Not as luxurious as the one in New York, but still miles nicer than anything Patrick has stayed in over the years. 

The oppressive silence continues well into them reaching their suite. Patrick wastes no time in throwing himself on the couch, sinking into the cushions and completely deflating from his overwrought exhaustion. 

Art perches an arms-length away, resting his elbows on his knees, chin heavy on his hands. 

Tashi stares at him, her eyes squinted in concentration. Assessing. She’s ultimately the one to break the silence, because of course she is. 

“So, what the fuck was that?”

Patrick simply sighs, sinking further into the couch, while Art huffs out a tired, “Tashi—”

“No, no, Art. I’ve given him time and space all fucking week, doing damage control with the press, trying to be supportive. And he’s given me nothing . But to go and say all that to your mom, you can’t blame me for needing something to work with here.” 

Patrick’s stomach sinks at the growing frustration in her voice. He knows, he knows that he’s taking advantage of her willingness to not push him. That she’s been working for him as his manager without the full story, dealing with his avoidance and mood-swings without knowing fully why. 

But when she turns to him, hitting him with a knowing look, leaving no room for games, any response he could formulate is wiped from his brain. 

“Did your parents abuse you?” 

“Tashi!” Art barks, sharp and sudden. He’s only ever heard Art raise his voice like that once before, and it’s something Patrick would rather not be reminded of. But he’s never heard it directed at Tashi . The sound ignites a deep sense of dread, that ever-present worry that they were happier before Patrick came along and fucked everything up. 

“What? It’s not like it’s a far-fetched conclusion to jump to.”

“I—” he starts, as Art and Tashi’s heads swivel his way. “No,” he denies. 

“Patrick…” Art warns, exasperated and mildly disappointed in his answer, clearly. 

“What? I—I wasn’t, like, abused abused.” Art looks like he wants to jump in and start dropping details, which Patrick really doesn’t care to rehash at the moment. So he gives in, just a little, mostly to get them off his back. “Just—my dad… uh, hit me. Sometimes.”

He’s never spoken the words aloud before. They feel weird leaving his mouth. Wrong, misshapen, somehow. But he forces them out, because Tashi wants to know, and Art expects him to share, as if Tashi asking the questions absolves him of keeping the secret. 

Now it’s Tashi who looks frozen in place. She didn’t expect him to just up and say it, he’s certain. 

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, as if she’s at a loss for words herself. Finally, she asks, “Your mom?”

“She didn’t hit me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Did she know?”

It all circles back to his outburst from earlier. “At least some of it. Maybe all of it. I don’t know.”

Tashi considers this, nodding to herself. Her eyes shift to Art, who is now picking at the skin of his lips, a nervous habit pre-dating even the Mark Rebellato days.

“Art knew?” She asks, looking back at Patrick again.

A resigned sigh. “Some of it,” he relents, with a faux-casual tilt of his head back and forth. 

When he doesn’t elaborate, she looks back to Art. He drops his head in his hands. 

“It happened once. That summer I stayed at his house. After that I… put some pieces together,” Art offers, reluctantly, as if he didn’t practically force Patrick to say it. 

Tashi steps closer to him, calculating gaze assessing once again. All he can do is try not to cower under her stare. 

“There’s more.” She says it like a statement, not needing confirmation. And that, for some reason, rubs him the wrong way more than anything else. 

“Can we not fucking do this?” He snaps. Tashi, true to herself, doesn’t even flinch in the face of his defensiveness. “It’s been a long fucking day, is it too much to ask that we don’t rehash every fucking detail of my life right now?”

She turns away, and Patrick barely catches the exasperated roll of her eyes. He watches her pace in front of the couch, each step ratcheting his own anxiety up more and more. 

“I’m just trying to understand, Patrick! It’s clearly affecting you, but I can’t help you if you don’t let me in!”

“Maybe I don’t need your fucking help. Not with this.”

“Right,” she scoffs. “Not with your fucking serve either, right? You’ve got it all figured out! What the fuck do you even need us for then?”

Patrick shoots off the couch, getting right in Tashi’s face, nose to nose. She doesn’t back down, never has.

“Fuck you, Tashi.”

“Alright, look, let’s just all calm down,” Art tiredly exhales, still apparently running interference. 

But his attempt falls on deaf ears—Patrick and Tashi still seething at each other, angry breaths mingling together between them. Neither one is willing to be the one to back down first. This is how it’s always been with them, even from that first night in the hotel in Queens. 

He’s hit, briefly, with a flash memory of New Rochelle. The two of them, arguing in that alleyway. The way she slapped him, knocking the cigarette right out of his mouth. 

Arguably, it was the least intense hit he’d taken in his life. But still, he’s sure that bringing it up now would hit her deep, stinging in a cruel, ruthless way. Twist her up inside. It would satisfy the craving he has to draw blood, make someone hurt alongside him. 

Or maybe not. Maybe she wouldn’t even be affected by the comparison.

Either way, it wouldn’t be fair to bring it up. He’s not callous, despite the way he was raised.

So rather than target his spite at her, he twists the knife further into his own belly, spilling his own blood on the floor under his feet. He surges the miniscule distance between them, catching her lips in a bruising, angry kiss. 

Anger has always been a sort of foreplay for them. 

In a way, this also feels reminiscent of New Rochelle, in how ruthless it is. His hands tangle in her hair, hard enough that she gasps against his mouth. Taking the invitation, he thrusts his tongue between her teeth, past the point of any finesse. 

God, it feels so fucking good , after going without for this entire week. Maybe he can finally get past his fucking block, or whatever. Maybe all he had to do was share a little bit of himself, and now he can lose himself in fucking Tashi. Or Art. He’s not feeling particularly picky. 

The hope propels him, makes him desperate to press even closer, letting her kiss him breathless. He wants to climb inside her fucking chest, make a home for himself in the delicate space between her ribs. Where he’ll be safe and away from any other prying eyes. 

Until he remembers with a jolt—ribs aren’t that hard to break. How safe would he really be? 

The phantom ache in his chest that he briefly felt in the car returns with a vengeance, so real that he flinches against it, forcefully detaching his mouth from Tashi’s to suck in a harsh gasp. 

His inhalations start coming in desperate bursts—he can’t fucking breathe, all of a sudden. Even with the rapid movement of air, in and out, his head tingles with the distinct lack of oxygen. Lungs burning, heart pounding, none of the air going where he needs it. 

“Whoa, hey, Patrick—calm down. Calm down.” He hears Tashi’s frantic voice, high pitched with worry, coming from somewhere, but his head is spinning enough that he can’t pinpoint from where. 

He can’t fucking breathe . 

“Patrick, look at me. C’mon, man.” Art , that’s Art. Closer than he was. 

Strong arms wrap around him, while his forehead rests on something. Art’s shoulder, he realizes, when the scent of his shirt collar somehow registers in his nose. 

“Deep breaths, c’mon. With me. In and out, with me.” Art instructs. Patrick tries to focus on the movement of his chest against his, trying to follow his rhythm. Using the familiar smell of his body wash to ground him, along with Art’s soft guiding breaths and encouraging words. 

Eventually, Patrick is able to slow his breathing enough to realize what just happened. He jerks out of Art’s hold, startled and a little bit fucking mortified. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “ Fuck !”

“It’s alright,” Art calmy murmurs, holding his hands out appeasingly. 

Patrick’s eyes find Tashi’s, wide with alarm before softening. 

“It’s okay,” she says, matching Art’s cadence. Any trace of residual anger is gone, replaced by an air of sadness and worry that he’s never really seen her wear before. Not directed at him, at least.

Adrenaline is coursing through him, still fighting some internal being trying to compress his chest. It leaves him feeling jittery, like he wants to crawl out of his fucking skin. 

“I’m gonna,” he pants, still not completely able to catch his breath. “I’m gonna go for a run.”

Tashi’s face twists up, just a tad. “You think that’s a good idea?”

To be honest, he doesn’t give a fuck if it’s a good idea. All he knows is that if he doesn’t burn this energy off right fucking now, he might actually drop dead right here, after it eats him whole. 

In lieu of a response, he starts digging through his suitcase, grabbing the first pair of athletic clothes he can find, and throwing them on right here in the living room. Shoving his feet into his socks, he sees Art start sorting through his own bag in his peripheral vision.

“You know what? I could go for a run too. Mind if I join?” Art asks, all fake casualty. 

Patrick sees right through him, especially when he’s being particularly unsubtle like this, but he doesn’t bother to fight it. If Art wants to run with him, or babysit him, or make sure he doesn’t run into traffic and fucking kill himself, he can be his fucking guest. 

The second they hit the pavement, Patrick sets a brutal pace, warm-up be damned. Chasing the burn in his calves, the controlled tightness in his lungs that comes from pushing himself hard and fast—not whatever the fuck just happened, some invisible threat stealing his oxygen. 

He doesn’t even know where to go, the streets all unfamiliar to him. He just picks a direction and sends it. 

After about ten minutes, he slows his pace to something more sustainable, the worst of his anxiety quieted by the rapid repetitive pounding of his feet. Art huffs alongside him, clearly not anticipating Patrick to sprint like that for as long as he did. 

He doesn’t know how long they run for, but they make it to a small park before he finally slows to a gradual stop. Once his mind is blissfully empty, and his limbs only burn from the exertion and nothing more. Even with his chest heaving, he finally feels like he can breathe again.

“Fuck,” Art pants beside him, bending down with his hands on his knees. “Since when have you been able to run like that? What the fuck.”

“Running is free,” he shrugs.

Art huffs out a surprised laugh at that, and tries to straighten back up. He chuckles again, looking up to the sky and incredulously asking, “Is this a runner’s high? Or am I dying?”

Patrick can’t help but smile amusedly at how Art somehow looks like he’s completely miserable and also a little bit loopy. He urges him over to a bench, where Patrick starts stretching out his hamstrings. Art follows suit, once he actually manages to catch his breath a bit more. After stretching out their legs and torsos, they both flop down on the bench. 

The sky is softening with a late afternoon glow, clueing him in to the fact that they’ve probably been running for at least an hour, if not longer. He feels like he’s lived a thousand lifetimes today alone. 

Art is the one to break the delicate silence that has settled between them. 

“Feel better?”

“In an immediate sense? Yeah,” he says, while moving his head back and forth, as if weighing two different options in his mind. “In general? I dunno.”

“Okay,” Art says. A few minutes pass, while Patrick watches the people gathered in the park around them, until Art says: “How often does that happen?”

He doesn’t need to ask what Art means by that, knowing he’s referencing his fucking panic attack , or whatever that was. 

“Something like that? Never.”

“Fuck.”

Patrick simply hums, agreeing. 

“Do you know what, like, triggered you?”

He winces, immediately feeling like a fucking nutjob who belongs in a psych ward, or something. But then he really forces himself to actually consider the question. 

Keeping his gaze directly ahead, not looking at Art, he responds. “I don’t really know how, but I guess I started thinking about a time I got really hurt, and I got… confused. Like my body couldn’t tell where I was anymore, what I was doing.” 

He can feel Art’s eyes on the side of his face, burning a hole into his profile, but still, he pointedly avoids his gaze. 

Beside him, Art clears his throat. “Hurt, like—how?”

Patrick shakes his head, not wanting to get into it. “Just… bad.”

“Your dad?”

Hesitating only a beat, Patrick gives a single nod. 

Art lets out a deep, shaky sigh. "Fuck."

A few more minutes pass in heavy silence, until Art speaks again.

“Do you really not think you were abused?”

Patrick immediately jumps to his feet, startled by the question. “Art—” he starts around an exasperated exhale, but is promptly interrupted. 

“No, seriously, Patrick. I’m asking , man.” Patrick angles himself so he’s standing directly in front of Art, where he’s still sitting on the bench. 

Art continues, when he simply gapes at him, unable to comprehend the question posed to him. 

“You wanna know what I think?” It must be a rhetorical question, the way he doesn’t wait for a response. “I think you were fucking abused, Patrick. Physically and emotionally. And I only know about a few times, man. But hey, let's play devil’s advocate, right?” 

Art shifts to standing, so he’s just an arm’s reach away from Patrick, his gaze unyielding, now eye-to-eye. 

“Did you really do anything, as a kid or otherwise, worthy of that much discipline? Do you really think that you could’ve done anything to deserve being pushed down the stairs? Genuinely, I’m asking.”

Art steps closer, keeping their eyes locked. 

“Or, imagine it was me, in your place. That my grandma did everything that your parents did to you, to me.” 

It makes his blood freeze, veins turning to solid ice. Little does Art know that Patrick has imagined this—that night the summer before junior year. Not at the hands of Art’s grandma, though. No, directly from the source. It’s as if he’s transported back in time, the intense terror he felt in that moment rocks through him all the same here. 

“No, Art, stop. Just stop .” 

“I want you to think about it from my perspective, Patrick. If it was me, wouldn’t you think it was abuse?”

A frustrated growl rips out of his throat. “It’s not the fucking same, though!”

“What, you think just because it happened to you that it’s automatically not as bad?”

“No, but what the fuck does it matter?” He yells, loud enough to attract the attention of people nearby. Lowering his voice, he spits, “He’s fucking dead, Art.”

“Exactly, Patrick. He’s dead. But you’re not. You’ve been bottling all of this up your entire fucking life, man, but that’s not gonna help you actually deal with your shit. You can’t just keep running away from it.” Patrick starts shaking his head, as if the movement will make Art’s words less true.

“And I’m fucking sorry. I hate that any of this happened to you. You didn’t deserve it. You don’t deserve it,” he corrects, placing a stand on Patrick’s shoulder and squeezing tight. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, all those years. But I’m here now, Patrick. And so is Tashi. We’re not going fucking anywhere, okay? No matter what.”

The pressure on his shoulder increases, only releasing once Patrick looks at Art again. 

“But we’re also not gonna stand by and let you shove this away, okay? You need to deal with it .”

Art’s eyes are on fire, absolutely blazing with intent, still locked right on Patrick’s. It’s fucking terrifying, standing at the edge overlooking Art’s endless sea of passion, in this moment. 

There’s so much that Patrick could say in response, that he should say, but all he can manage is a meek, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Art confirms. When Patrick gives a slight nod of his head, Art pulls him into a tight hug, right there in the middle of the park. “C’mere.”

Letting himself relax into it, he holds on for dear life. Even with the sweat sticking to both of them, and the potential other eyes watching them—honestly, it’s just another callback to New Rochelle—Patrick presses closer, squeezes tighter. 

When they finally release, Patrick gives Art a sad smile. 

“Who knew you’d be such a tough-love type.”

Art simply slaps him on the back, giving him a matching look, before gesturing back in the direction they came. 

“Should we walk back? I think my legs will literally fall off if we run.”

That nearly gets a laugh out of him, before Patrick gives Art’s back a slap of its own.

“Coming from the guy who literally won a Grand Slam last week.”

“Shut the fuck up, tennis and distance-running are different and you know it.”

“Whatever, man, not my fault your stamina is shit.”

Just like that, the heaviness melts away between them as they make the long trek back to their hotel. It’s just Art and Patrick, and at the end of the day, they’ve always been able to be exactly what the other needs, no matter how shitty the world around them may be. 

* * *

They pick up Chinese food on the way, hoping that Tashi hasn’t eaten already to spite them for leaving her alone for so long. 

As they enter their suite, Patrick’s stomach sinks when he notices the slight puffiness to Tashi’s eyes, the subtle lines of red surrounding them. She doesn’t look mad, though. He hopes that’s a good sign. 

Swallowing his pride, and his shame, he tells her he’s sorry. Before she can do the same, he’s pulling her into a hug as well, just like the one he had with Art at the park. 

She relaxes into him, and presses a soft kiss to the side of his head, even though he’s still sticky with drying sweat. 

They hug like that, until the moment is embarrassingly cut short—the sound of Patrick’s stomach growling echoing through the room.

Tashi lets out a full belly laugh—something he hasn’t heard from her in over a week—right in his ear before pulling away. 

“C’mon, let's eat,” Tashi says around a smile, rolling her eyes playfully as she heads toward the table, where Art is dutifully unpacking paper cartons of rice and plastic containers with various entrees. She gives Art a quick peck, and helps him sort through the food. 

Patrick watches them, just for a moment, before joining them at the table, where they’ve already set a place for him.

Chapter Text

2007 – Cardiff, United Kingdom

Part of touring that no one warned Patrick about is how tiring it all can be. How long days full of drills and matches and stretches and ice baths blend together, interspersed with seemingly endless travel days—just so he can go on and do it all over again the next day. 

The city or state or goddamn country may change, but the soreness in his muscles lingers. 

The bone deep exhaustion—constant. 

(And the crushing loneliness— relentless .)

He’s been at it for almost a year—not that he has much to fucking show for it—but the repetitiveness has him nearly coasting at this point. A new timezone, a new surface—any minor change to his day-to-day keeps him on his toes, but even the changes wear on him as the time passes. Chipping pieces away at an alarming rate, until he worries he won’t have much left to give. 

Pietro, his coach—a short, harsh Italian man that had trained one of his coaches at the Academy when he went pro back in the day—is visibly losing his patience with Patrick. With loss after loss, Patrick can hardly blame him for being frustrated. 

But maybe Pietro is to blame, too. He doesn’t seem to care about actually coaching Patrick. Not in a productive way, at least. Running him into the ground and yelling fucking expletives at him is not really a style that Patrick responds well to. Go figure. 

He does win some tournaments. He just loses more. 

All in all, he feels like he’s fucking backsliding. 

It’s been one month since… since. After what happened, he had to nearly beg Pietro to enter him in tournaments overseas, desperate to put as many miles between himself and Palo Alto as possible. 

No matter the distance, when he’s alone in his room at night, he swears he can hear the sickening sound of bones snapping, of Tashi’s anguished screams.

Not that he even was there for that part. But his subconscious mind has no problem filling in the blanks, right when he’s in that buoyant state of half-sleep, until he’s jerking back awake and the process repeats again.

His circadian rhythm is all sorts of fucked up, from more than just the jet-lag. 

He’s exhausted during the day, only able to manage during practice by slamming energy drinks, and it only seems natural that he’s restless at night, unable to fully drift even when his body craves nothing more than the quiet stillness of sleep . 

Even now, after what feels like hours of tossing and turning, his brain won’t just shut the fuck up . He risks a glance at the alarm clock on the side table, 1:53 am, and has to stifle an exasperated huff of annoyance. His next match is at 10:00 am—but he needs to be up long before then to warm-up and pretend to listen to Pietro talk strategy. At this rate, he’ll barely scrape by with four solid hours. 

The match he played today was fine. Painfully average. Against some British guy named Koch, he managed to take it in three sets, but it wasn’t done particularly well. Koch refused to go down without a fight, and now it’s wearing deep in Patrick’s bones hours later. 

All he wants is to sleep it off and prepare to do it all again tomorrow. This time against a Czech guy ranked way higher than him. 

But no. Instead, it’s nearly two o’clock in the morning and he’s stuck replaying the worst moment of his life over and over again, in a sick loop, as he has every single night for the past four weeks. 

“Patrick! Get the fuck out!”

Staring at the outdated popcorn ceilings of his hotel room, Patrick can practically see the scene playing out in front of him, as if his eyes are projecting it like a movie. Allowing him to pick new details to fixate over each time. 

Tashi’s white-hot rage, barely able to mask her pain and agony. 

Art’s stone-cold face, the deathly serious hostility in his voice. 

He’s never seen Art that mad before. Not once in the entire seven years they’ve known each other, attached at the hip, living out of each other’s pockets. Knowing each other inside and out.

Tendrils of dread worm their way into his chest at the thought, even now. He can still see it, crystal-clear. It took him a while to decode what exactly it was he saw on Art’s face that day, for him to place the familiar look in a place he’d never seen it before. 

Hatred. 

A look he’s well-acquainted with, on his father’s face often. His mother’s, occasionally. Even Tashi’s at times, usually short-lived before replaced by lust. But never Art’s. Not even a hint of it. 

Picturing it becomes his nightmare, even before sleep manages to drag him down. Every night, he thinks about that look on Art’s face until it twists up, ugly and deformed. Or until Art steps out of the moment and approaches Patrick in the doorway, where he’s frozen in place, until his fist connects with his face. 

Maybe it’s his way to try to make sense of everything, even though nothing changes. Tashi still hates him, Art still hates him, and now, Patrick’s starting to hate himself too. 

He turns from his side to his back, and with a frustrated groan he sits up, running his hands through his hair. Reaching for his phone, his fingers work before his mind does. Another way to rub salt in the wound, to wallow in his fucking pity party. 

Pulling up his messages, he sees nothing new. No unread texts.

He flips to the sent messages. His thumb hovers for just a moment over the middle button, before selecting the last messages he sent Art. 

Me (4:58 pm): r u going 2 hospital with her?

Sent March 2, 2007

Me (6:13 pm): srsly man, just tell me shes ok

Sent March 2, 2007

Me (9:26 pm): art?

Sent March 2, 2007

Radio silence, from both of them. He can’t really blame Tashi, because even with a glimpse he could tell how fucked her knee was. Of course she’s pissed. Probably devastated. Definitely busy healing from the surgery she no-doubt underwent.

But Art? His silence cuts like a knife, right into Patrick’s heart. 

And the thing about Patrick is: he knows when he’s not wanted. How could he not, given his entire fucking childhood? He is well aware when his presence is not welcome. 

So he stares at the messages he sent to Art, and pictures the look on his face when he yelled at Patrick to get the fuck out. 

He lets it fester, the knowledge that the only person—or even two people—who ever actually wanted him around don’t anymore. 

He should have known it was only a matter of time. That there’s something inherently wrong with him. Something that makes him unlovable, unable to be kept close. His parents saw it the moment he was born. He feels stupid for hoping that maybe Art or Tashi would be blind to it, or even keep him in spite of it. 

But maybe he was always meant to be alone. Maybe he’s just the last person to figure it out. 

With shaking hands, he deletes the messages, one by one. Then he switches to his contact list, and scrolls down to the T’s. He opens Tashi’s contact and deletes it. Scrolls back up, hovers over Art’s. Delete. 

It’s symbolic, he supposes. Him letting them go, doing them a favor since they clearly no longer want him. Cutting the tether from his end, as if it will do anything to lighten their burdens at all.

(It’s also symbolic because he knows both numbers by heart. As if they’re branded into his soul.)

He drops his phone back against the nightstand and turns to lay on his side. He’ll definitely be groggy tomorrow. Pietro will be on his ass about it in the morning, no doubt. 

At least he figures he can still blame the jetlag. His mind—and his splintered pieces of his heart—are halfway across the world, after all. 

2008 – Darien, Connecticut

The first time Patrick returns home as an adult is for his sister’s wedding. He hasn’t seen Maddie or his parents since winter break during his senior year, when he dragged his ass back to Connecticut for Hanukkah. He’s been able to avoid coming home since then, citing tournaments and travel plans during the holidays.

It’s not really even a lie, and it’s not like anyone actually misses him anyway. 

But apparently he made the cut for an invite to the wedding. He was almost tempted to skip out on the whole thing, but a small mass of guilt slithered its way into his gut at the idea. He was invited, after all, and at the end of the day, he felt obligated to go. 

He also can’t deny the hint of morbid curiosity he feels, wondering how things will go with him there. 

Maybe it’s self-sabotage—something Patrick is all-too familiar with.

At twenty-years-old, he’s the same age that Maddie was when he got sent to Mark Rebellato for that first year. It’s a bit of a mindfuck, when he remembers how far apart in age they actually are. Looking back, they never really got to know each other as siblings. They were more like two people who happen to share half their DNA and lived in the same house for a few years. He can’t help but wonder if—now that they’re both adults—they can turn things around, maybe actually try the whole sibling thing.  

Though he doubts it, with the way he was surprised when he received the invitation in his inbox a few months ago. He didn’t even know she was engaged. Or seeing anyone, for that matter. 

But there it was, a graphic rendering of a classy calligraphy invitation in his email, since he doesn’t think his parents know where his “permanent residence” actually is to send a real invitation. Not like he’s ever actually in the shithole apartment he rents in outside of Tampa, anyway. Especially when the season is in full swing, like it is now. 

It doesn’t help that his new coach, Antonio—Pietro had quit in a rage near the end of last year, leaving Patrick scrambling for anyone who would take him—has been pushing for him to take what he’s calling a mental break, and is convinced that going home to see his family will help his game, somehow. 

Patrick doesn’t bother to explain that it will likely have the exact opposite effect, especially when Antonio purposefully schedules their travel schedule around the wedding. It doesn’t seem worth it to put up a fight. 

Antonio isn’t a bad coach, especially compared to Pietro. He doesn’t yell at Patrick and he uses more positive reinforcement, but he’s a little too soft. Patrick doesn’t feel like he’s really adding anything to his game, either. Sure, it’s nice to have someone figure out tournaments to play in and keep track of logistics, but that’s basically as far as his helpfulness goes. 

Still, he was lucky that anyone was willing to take him on as a player at all. With how poorly he’s played this past year, it was honestly nothing short of a miracle. 

The loss of Art and Tashi from his life sticks to him like a gaping wound, one that won’t close no matter how tightly he bandages it up. Wrapping it with layers of gauze only offers temporary relief, before bright red blood is pooling against the fabric and staining his clothes. 

The pain is at its worst when he plays tennis, of course. It simultaneously allows him to feel closer to them, the two people who ever truly mattered to him, while also making the distance between them wide and glaringly obvious. 

He almost feels like an addict, craving the way tennis reminds him of them. High on the closeness of it, until he crashes out and remembers that he’s fucking alone. Even when he loses, he feels frantic for his next game, the next opportunity to play. 

And he loses. A lot. It only makes the addiction that much more tragic, really. 

He just can’t seem to find it in himself to stop playing for them . Not when he can’t even dig deep enough to play for himself anymore. 

And so he knows that the wedding won’t do what Antonio hopes it will. The idea of a break in playing, even if just for a week, has him already feeling like he wants to scratch his skin off. Itching for a hit. 

He barely makes it to Connecticut in time. He’d been playing in the Countrywide Classic Challenger in Carson the week prior, and somehow he actually made it to the final round, surprising both himself and Antonio equally. After the tournament ended on June 1st, he rushed to the airport and took a red-eye out of LAX to head east. 

Just in time for the June 2nd wedding between Dr. Madeline Zweig and Dr. Charles Bergman. 

Arriving at the house just two hours shy of the ceremony, Patrick is able to slip inside unnoticed. The wedding is being held at the estate, the ceremony overlooking the coastline and the reception outside in the garden. With the hustle and bustle of last-minute set-up, he easily escapes upstairs without any grief.

Tossing his bag on his bed, he starts stripping off his plane clothes in hopes of a quick shower. All he really wants is to take a nap—plane sleep is hardly what he’d call restful , especially after his grueling final match yesterday—but he’s already running low on time as it is. He opts for a cold shower and hopes the chilled spray can make him look at least… alive. 

By the time he shaves and dresses in one of his old suits, he has thirty minutes until the wedding starts. Nothing he can do about the bags under his eyes, but at this point he can’t find it in himself to care. He really doesn’t want to do this— any of this—as tired as he is, but with a steadying breath he makes his way out to the row of chairs set out on the edge of their property. 

He’s never actually been to a wedding before, but this looks about how he’d always pictured one. Expensive-looking white chairs are set up in rows, with a long aisle splitting the middle. Along the aisle there are bunches of flowers, mostly white with subtle bursts of pastel colors mixed in, soft shades of pinks and yellows and greens. Along the cliff, overlooking the water, the flowers continue in an arch over what he assumes is the altar. 

It’s simple, but clearly expensive. There’s fewer chairs set out than he was expecting—it feels almost intimate. It makes him even more shocked that he made the final cut. 

As people continue to trickle in, Patrick takes a seat near the back, figuring that if he’s in the wrong place surely someone will tell him to move. But no one does.

All in all, the actual wedding ceremony goes well, or at least, he assumes it does. Maddie looks nice in her giant white dress and her fiancé—husband, whatever—tears up when she walks down this aisle, while she’s visibly clutching onto their father. Their mother watches from the front row with a tissue in her hand. 

Patrick has yet to actually interact with anyone from his family today, only seeing them for the first time literally walking down the aisle, and he can’t help but feel… left out? Memories of his childhood start rushing back, feelings of envy when his parents doted on Maddie and treated her kindly. Lovingly. 

As opposed to how everyone treated him. 

He can’t help but still feel like an outsider, but now it’s at least partially his own fault. He never comes around. Out of sight, out of mind. 

Before he knows it, the ceremony is done, and Maddie and—Charles? What the fuck is his name again?—are walking back down the aisle with bright, happy smiles on their faces, flanked by the bridesmaids and groomsmen. 

He must’ve zoned out for parts of the ceremony, for it to have flown by that fast. Looking around as the other attendees make their way to the garden, he has to blink the heavy exhaustion from his eyes. It takes serious effort for him to heave himself out of his chair and follow the crowd. 

The sun is setting over the coastline now, casting a warm, orange light on the garden. There is a large table in the middle of everything, with an overflowing arrangement of the same flowers from the ceremony. The wedding party settles in, leaving the two center seats open, obviously for the bride and groom. 

Smaller tables are scattered around, with name placements handily marking each one. As Patrick scans for his seat, he continues taking everything in. The flowers from the garden don’t clash with the floral arrangements, somehow, and fairy lights have been strung across the trees lining the space, making everything feel very classy and cozy at the same time. 

He’d hardly even recognize this space, if he hadn’t spent the first few years of his life helping Peggy maintain the garden—though his idea of “helping” was collecting the worms he’d occasionally dig up while she did all the actual work. 

“Patrick! Over here!” 

Speak of the devil (read: angel )—the woman herself is waving at him, trying to get his attention from across the set-up. He can’t help but smile, a real, genuine smile—his first in… God knows how long—at the sight of Peggy. The smile may be a little strained at the edges, and he doesn’t think it meets his eyes, but he does feel happy to see her. 

“Peggy, hi,” he says, as he tries to muster every ounce of energy he can find. When he’s close enough she pulls him into a tight hug, and for a moment he lets himself completely melt against her. He can hardly remember the last time he was embraced by someone who actually cares about him. Not since…

“Oh honey, are you eating enough?” Peggy asks, all motherly-concern. She pulls back and takes a good look at him, keeping her hands on his outer arms. She tsks , before saying, “You’re so thin. You’re working yourself too hard.”

One of her hands moves up to cup his cheek, thumb tracing the noticeable bag under his eye. 

He tries to smile again, but he finds it much harder to raise both sides of his lips, all of a sudden. 

“I’m okay, Pegs. Promise. Just had a long past couple’a days.” 

Which is true. He just… doesn’t mention that it’s been a long few years, too. 

She tuts at him again, before releasing his face to lead him to his assigned chair. “Come on, sit, sit! You’re next to me, right over here. You look like you’re about to keel over.” 

He pulls out her chair for her, then lowers himself into his own seat, marked by his name in a swooping cursive script. 

He leans over, to see who’s next to him, stomach already sinking a little before he sees the name. Of course, it would be none other than Richard Zweig , father of the bride. Weird how he didn’t think he’d make the cut for the family table. 

He hasn’t seen either of his parents since the ceremony ended—Maddie, either, he realizes. Growing nervous, now that he knows he won’t be able to slip under the radar tonight, he reaches for the water glass already set out at his seat. He nearly chugs it in one go. 

“Oh, Patrick, I can’t wait to hear all about your adventures! Tell me everything!” Peggy gushes beside him. 

He clears his throat, anxiously trying to lay eyes on his father, but unable to locate him. Glancing back to Peggy, he sees the genuine excitement in her eyes, with the tiniest hint of concern. 

“Yeah, it’s, uh. It’s great,” he starts, though it sounds flat even to his own ears. Trying to perk up a little, he continues. “It’s a lot of travel, and a lot of tennis, obviously. My coach is… nice,” he adds, lamely.

“I saw that you were in Europe a lot last year! I’ve always wanted to get out that way, but haven’t had the chance. Where was your favorite place?” 

“Oh, um,” he takes a moment, and gives her the first answer that pops in his head. “Spain is pretty nice, I guess. Hot though.”

In truth, he didn’t actually get to spend much time enjoying all the places he traveled to when he toured Europe last year. Instead of actually taking advantage of being in the UK and Spain and Italy and Croatia—he just played his matches and did his stretches and tossed and turned in various hotel rooms, with occasional late-night guests when the loneliness got to be too much. 

Europe, or the States—in the end it didn’t make a goddamn difference where he was. If anything, the distance only served to isolate him more, rather than provide the distraction he hoped it would. 

Shaking his head, he tries to bring himself back to the present. Back to the lavish wedding that he has no fucking business being at. 

His eyes meet Peggy’s again, where the worry has completely taken over. He tries again to smile, but has to look away from her to do it. And the thing is, he can tell he’s fucking this up but he just doesn’t have the energy to be a good conversationalist right now. 

“Well,” she continues, after a beat, clearly trying to find any thread of conversation to let Patrick latch onto. “How is Art doing? Is he just loving Stanford?”

And really, he should have seen this coming. But still, nothing could have prepared him for the way his chest clenches, the way all the air is sucked out of his lungs at hearing his name. One he hasn’t heard in over a year.

He has to swallow, forcing down the lump rising in his throat. His gaze is glued to his name card, but his eyes go a little blurry. Squeezing them tight, he half-heartedly mutters, “Yeah, uh, he’s good.” 

It’s easier to pretend than think about the reality of not knowing how Art is doing. 

With his eyes closed he doesn’t see his parents approaching, but they shoot open when he hears movement beside him. For the first time in his entire fucking life, he’s almost relieved by their presence—how they cut off Peggy’s probing questions about Art when they join them at the table. 

Another small mercy, before they can say anything to him Maddie and Charles are making their grand entrance as a married couple, rightfully taking all the attention around them. 

While they have their first dance, then the father-daughter dance, Patrick sinks further and further into himself. It takes so much of his energy to just remain upright, to keep his eyes focused, that it’s all he can do. 

Speeches come and go, but he can’t be fucked to pay attention. He thinks he’s in that state of complete and total exhaustion, the kind that’s so overwhelming that he starts to almost hallucinate. Or maybe he’s finally gone crazy.

It’s the only explanation, the only reason his mind won’t stop thinking about Art . It’s just that Peggy brought him up, and he latched on in his near-delirium. That’s it, surely.

He’s just tired. His body is confused—he doesn’t know what to feel, anymore. That must be why he’s overcome by an overwhelming emptiness. Because he’s getting all his wires twisted. That’s the only reason he could feel something so akin to grief at a fucking wedding . 

Right?

Patrick has never really given much thought to getting married himself. He’s not sure it’s in the cards for him, that he’s the marrying type. While he loved (loves?) Tashi, the idea of eventually marrying her felt too far off to be worth thinking about, even when they were together. Maybe they could have gotten there, with a little more time. Who knows? 

But there is one person he always wanted to live his life with. Do everything with. And isn’t that the point of marriage? To commit to forever ?

It’s not something he ever let himself think about, not even in his most hidden fantasies. But for some reason, watching his sister and her new husband across the garden, he lets himself imagine it. And it fucking eviscerates him. 

He’ll never have that. He knows it. Not anymore, not now that he’s completely and totally alone. He ruined his only chance, and he has no one to blame but himself.

Dinner goes on in a blur. He eats his food, barely tasting it, keeping his eyes on the plate in front of him. He avoids Peggy’s concerned glances, and somehow manages to avoid his parents’ judgment. They barely notice him, which is completely fine by him. He doesn’t think he could handle a single passive aggressive comment right now. 

By the time the plates have been cleared, and the cake has been cut, people start getting up to dance—old classics blaring through a speaker. 

His parents are making their rounds on the guests, schmoozing and charming their way through the garden. Maddie and Charles are spinning together on the wooden dance floor. Peggy is somewhere—getting a cup of coffee? He didn’t really register what she said as she left. 

And he just… can’t be here anymore. It’s a wedding, something people want to celebrate. He can’t help but feel like he’s ruining the event, even though not a single soul is paying him a lick of attention. 

But still, he’s gripped by the need to go . 

And so without a word, he slips away unnoticed. He never even told Maddie congrats. He’s not even sure she knows that he came. 

He heads upstairs and grabs his bag, and calls a cab to come pick him up. He’ll stay in a hotel. He can’t stay here for another second.

He resolves to call Maddie tomorrow, to congratulate her then. To call Antonio, and try to convince him to cut his break short.

But tonight, he just needs sleep—and for once, he’s almost glad to be alone.

2011 – Atlanta, Georgia

2011 is an abnormally good year for Patrick. At the start of the season, he decided to move forward without a coach. Untethered, unsigned. What made him fall in love with tennis in the first place was the solitary nature of it, so he figured that he was better off on his own in all respects. 

Even after nearly five years on tour, he still has yet to find a coach that actually adds anything of value to his playing. No one knows his game better than he does anyway, so it just makes sense to drop the extra weight and take care of himself. 

It’s what he’s used to, anyway. Being a lone wolf. Tennis was just the last aspect of his life to catch up. 

And honestly, it’s really fucking working for him. 

He started off the year winning back to back futures tournaments to test out the waters as a free agent, so to speak. When he came away victorious at the first tournament in Weston, he honestly figured it was a fluke. But a second victory in Palm Coast—on clay, arguably his worst surface—that same month? It gave Patrick the momentum and the confidence he desperately needed to push forward. 

He was done letting outside forces drag him down, hold him back. 

So low-level ITF tournaments turned into upper-level challengers, and somehow—by the near grace of god—he managed to secure a spot in the qualifiers for the Atlanta Open. 

Though his motivations for trying for Atlanta may be a little… double-sided. 

It’s all the talk of the Tennis Channel, that the unstoppable newcomer on the professional circuit, Art Donaldson, is favored to win the whole fucking thing. Just a stop on the road to his anticipated US Open Victory. All thanks to his new coach: the ever-talented and tragic loss to the sport, Tashi Duncan. 

So yeah, he has his eye on more than the prize money for moving past the qualifiers. Fucking sue him. 

When he arrives in Atlanta, he skips checking into his hotel and goes straight to the practice courts. It’s not even hard to find them. 

He tells himself he’ll just sneak a peek. Nothing more. Just long enough to convince himself that they’re real, just enough to sate the persistent ache in his chest, the one that’s been festering for five fucking years, despite all his efforts to move on. 

It’s fucking pathetic. He’s pathetic. 

But once he sees them, the world around him stands still, just for a moment. Art, an angel dressed in all white—forbidden, but so tempting. Tashi, his opposite in black across the net. They haven’t noticed him yet, and he can’t help but come closer. His legs move on their own, drawn toward them unconsciously. 

The fire when he locks eyes with Art… it ignites something in him that he’d thought was long dead. Rather than stifle the ache, it sharpens, until the agony is nearly unbearable, burning a hole right through his rapidly-beating heart. He buries the pain, not letting it show in the way he’s draped over the spectator chairs. 

But still, the longer he stays there watching them, the deeper he digs his own grave. 

He’s gone long before they finish drills.

* * *

“This is never happening again,” Tashi tells him, though it takes a moment for the words to set in, with how focused he is on watching her pull her jeans up her long, lean legs. 

“Sure,” he replies, chewing on a smirk, just because he knows it will make her mad. 

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” he grins, shrugging a shoulder. Going for casual, unaffected, even though his heart is threatening to beat out of his chest. 

“Patrick,” she grits out, fixing him with an irritated glare while she slips back into her silky white blouse.

All it serves to do is sharpen his smile, humorless and dangerous. He steps in close—still naked save for his boxers—and drags the tip of his nose across her cheek to whisper lowly in her ear. She remains perfectly still. From this distance, he can tell she’s holding her breath. 

“What would your fiancé say, if he knew what you were up to when he’s not looking?”

With a hard push to his chest, she tries to shove him away, but he’s expecting it. He holds himself in place, grabbing around her wrists and pulling her arms back down to her sides.

“I mean really,” he continues, mean and biting, “how would Mr. Tashi Duncan feel knowing that his soon-to-be wife is in the same building, fucking her ex.” 

Her eyes glint with uncontained rage, but underneath Patrick recognizes a hint of something all-too familiar, something he knows is reflected in his own eyes too—guilt, fear, regret . Just for a split second, until she closes herself off, eyes going hard in an instant. 

“Do you ever talk about me?” He presses, nearly nose to nose with Tashi again. Now that he’s here, he needs to know. 

“We don’t even think about you.”

He huffs out a callous laugh, pressing even closer. “ Liar ,” he breathes against her mouth, before nipping her bottom lip, sharp and swift.

She’s quick to respond, sinking her teeth deep into Patrick’s bottom lip in retaliation. Before long, she’s shoving him against the door of the hotel bathroom. Biting at his lips and forcing her tongue into his mouth—this kiss is angry. Aggressive, in a way their previous kisses tonight weren’t. 

In the hotel bar, when they finally came together, they were nostalgic, borderline sweet. Filled with a longing so intense it toed a line into melancholy. 

All traces of tenderness are long gone, with the way they shove at each other, giving into the lust between them and the hatred they harbor inside for feeling it. 

Part of him thinks that he should feel guilty, for Art’s sake, at least. He is allowing his fiancée to cheat on him, right now. But a bigger part of him is a twisted, ugly, vindictive anger. Serves him right , he thinks, for planting the seeds that ultimately led to their explosive end. See how it fucking feels .

He doesn’t owe Art anything, not anymore. That ship has long-since sailed, when Art cut him off without a fucking word. Throwing seven years of friendship down the fucking drain. Yes, he’s missed Tashi. So much it fucking hurts . But he’d be lying if he didn’t admit how much his main motivation here is to wound Art back, make him hurt for a change. 

Make him bleed .

And besides, he’s not cheating on anyone. Tashi is a grown woman who is more than capable of making her own bed and fucking lying in it. He can hardly be blamed for wanting to dirty the sheets a little, when the opportunity presents itself. 

Her hands are in his hair, fingers knotted through the strands tight enough to sting, and he can’t help but hiss against her lips. His hands trail down her spine to her ass, where his grip borders on bruising. In response, her nails dig further into his scalp and it’s so delicious he can’t swallow the moan that escapes his throat. 

In a haste he works to unbutton her jeans, again , and slides his hands all the way down to her ankles, bringing the rough denim and her lacy thong down with them. Tashi kicks her way out of the fabric collected at her feet, and as Patrick returns himself upright he grabs the curve of her thighs, just below her ass, and heaves her up against him. Forcing her legs to wrap around his waist, her arms around his neck. 

He can feel her, so warm and wet against the skin above his waistband, and he mentally kicks himself for only bringing one condom. He’s already aching again, nearly dizzy with how badly he wants to bury himself inside her one more time. 

Instead, he carries her over to the sink, and unceremoniously deposits her on the black marble counter. 

“You are not putting my bare ass on this fucking counter, Patrick, I swear to fucking—” 

But her protests die the second he drops to his knees, arms snaking around her thighs and yanking her down so her legs are draped over his shoulders. He doesn’t waste another second before he’s diving in, lapping at her like he’s fucking starved for it. 

“ Fuck ,” she moans, hands returning to his hair, as if to hold on for dear life. 

She’s half laying on the counter, half leaned against the bathroom mirror, still wearing her button-up shirt. God, she’s still the hottest fucking woman he’s ever seen—the sight of her has him groaning, the sound muffled against her. 

The fucking taste of her, Christ, he’s missed it. Tongue pressing deep inside her, he chases it, desperate for more. She flutters around him, whining high in her throat. He licks back up to her clit, circling around it before sealing his lips and sucking . 

“Fuck, Patrick,” she gasps, reaching as far down his back as she can before scraping her nails harshly against his skin, leaving what he’s sure will be angry red lines trailing up to his neck. 

He mouths his way over to her thigh, laving the area with his tongue, resisting the urge to bite down and mark . He’ll be good though, he won’t leave any trace for Art to find. 

He shoves two fingers into her, going in easily from the stretch of his cock earlier, crooking them forward. He can feel the way her thighs tremble against his lips, and it makes him a little bit crazy. 

“Does he fuck you like this? Does he give you everything you need?” 

She snickers above him, her contempt audible—until he brings his tongue back to her clit while his fingers pick up the pace, pumping inside her, effectively cutting her off. 

“You wanna know how he fucks me, Patrick?” She goads, tormentingly mean. “You wanna know how desperate he gets? How out of his mind he gets for me?” Patrick groans against her again, unable to hold it back. The sound seems to embolden her. “You jealous, hmm?”

He feels her leg twist against his back, pressing against both shoulder blades, effectively caging him in and holding him closer against her. Her fingers tighten their grip in his hair again.

“You wanna know about the sweet noises he makes? Or how his face scrunches up when he comes?”

Her lips contort into a smile so sharp, it’s more like a fucking snarl. 

“No, I suppose you’d already know that, wouldn’t you?”

It’s a low fucking blow, but all it does is stoke the fire in his own belly. He just hopes he doesn’t see the way his cock twitches in his boxers, how the fabric is going damp where it rests against the head. 

He continues his ministrations on her, licking at her clit and tracing down to press his tongue between his fingers, going as deep as he can, before doing it all over again. 

“Mmm,” she moans, grabbing at his face, the cold band of her engagement ring against his cheek making him shiver. Ensuring that his eyes lock on hers, she taunts, “Maybe if you try hard enough you’ll be able to taste him.”

It feels like a gunshot, the way it hits him so perfectly where it hurts. And still, a twisted part of him is so fucking turned on by her words that his head fucking spins. He groans wantonly against her, before sucking hard on her clit, pressing his tongue over and over and over again against where she’s most sensitive. 

Maybe he convinces himself that he actually can taste Art, and it feels fucking filthy in the best way. 

It doesn’t take long before she’s close, thighs trembling against either side of his head. Her breaths are coming in and out in little staccato bursts, her choked off whines filling his ears like the sweetest music he’s ever heard.

When she comes, she’s quiet, body tense above him, still while she rides out her pleasure. Her strong hands keep him in place, and he starts gentling his tongue, leaving soft sucking kisses against her. 

Just as he’s about to reach into his boxers to finish himself off, nearly there already, Tashi unhooks her thighs from his shoulders and uses her feet to forcefully kick him away. 

From where he now sits on his ass on the fucking bathroom floor, he gapes up at her, wide-eyed and dumbfounded. 

“What the hell, Tashi?”

She doesn’t look at him, just starts grabbing her clothes and shoving herself into them, again , though now with much less finesse than earlier. 

“I told you we’re never doing that again, Patrick. I mean it.”

And yeah, maybe it’s a little bit petulant, but he can’t help but ask, “What about—” as he looks pointedly at his tented shorts. Not his finest look, to be honest.

“Not my problem,” she laughs, a cruel, mean burst. All at once, any remaining arousal he felt turns sour, curdling in his stomach at the venom in her voice. 

“Tashi—”

“God, you’re so fucking desperate. It’s pathetic,” she harshly interrupts, buttoning her jeans then turning to look in the mirror to smooth out her hair, wiping traces of mascara from below her eyes. “Showing up like that today. And tonight.” She turns back to him, where he seems to be frozen on the floor. Hanging onto her every word, in shock at the rapid atmospheric shift around them. 

“And I want you to know, Patrick,” she seethes, coming to stand right over him, catching his gaze once again. It’s impossible to miss the anger there, swirling around the depths of her eyes. “That your name has not left his lips once . Not in five fucking years .” She bends down, getting on one knee, right in his face this time. “You need to fucking move. on .” 

And with that, she stands, grabbing her discarded shoes, and without bothering to put them back on, unlocks the door and slams it behind her. Not even sparing him a parting glance. 

In the silent stillness of the bathroom, he tries to figure out what the fuck just happened—how everything went south so fucking fast. He feels like he has whiplash, for chrissakes. 

Still sitting on the floor, in nothing but his boxers, he’s hit with a burning wave of something that feels a lot like shame—so strong it threatens to knock him over, to choke him. He looks down at himself, at the wet spot on his shorts, and the scratch marks he can barely see marring his shoulders. His lips are still slick, and he suddenly can’t stand the residual taste in his mouth. 

He shoots up off the ground and rinses his face in the sink, swirling water around in his mouth. He dresses quickly, yanking his jeans back up and throwing his shirt—Tashi’s shirt—over his head, bending over to shove his feet into his Nikes. But as he straightens up, ready to get the fuck out and start the long walk back to his shitty hotel, he catches his refletion in the mirror. 

All he can see, in bold letters, as if fucking taunting him, are the words I TOLD YA. 

I TOLD YA it was a bad idea, seeking them out. I TOLD YA they fucking hate you. I TOLD YA they still want you . I TOLD YA it would hurt like fucking hell. I TOLD YA I TOLD YA I TOLD YA. 

And yet, he can’t quite bring himself to regret any of it.

* * *

To nobody’s surprise, he bombs out of the qualifiers. It’s a spectacular, extraordinary, complete and utter disaster of a match. And he can’t even find it in himself to care. 

Also to nobody’s surprise, Art Donaldson takes the whole thing. It’s a spectacular, extraordinary, complete masterpiece to witness.

Or so they say on the Tennis Channel.

Patrick wouldn’t know. He didn’t stick around long enough to watch for himself. 

2013 – Washington, D.C.

Patrick has something of a lucky streak in the summer of 2013. Through June and July, he makes it to at least the semi-finals of all three tournaments he enrolls in, and he actually manages to make it to the finals in Birmingham. 

After years of trying to find his footing, he finally feels like things are coming together for him. Falling into place—on the court, at least. 

Things continue on this trajectory when he makes it through the qualifiers and secures a spot in the DC Citi Open. It’s his first shot at an ATP 500 event, and he intends to make sure it’s not his last. 

The tides are changing—he can feel it. He’s finally in a position to make the waves everyone expected him to when he won the Junior Open back in ‘06. Turns out he’s just a few years behind the curve. 

This type of event is vastly different from the futures tournaments and challengers he’s used to. It even feels like a massive step up from the few ATP 250 events he’s managed to squeeze into. The Rock Creek Park Tennis Center is fucking huge, and it’s electrifying to play in front of crowds this large in such a prestigious tournament. Him being here almost feels like a fluke. 

As if that isn’t enough to throw his nerves into overdrive, the universe has apparently decided he needs even more reason to feel off-balance going into the second round. Because right before he heads for the tunnels leading to the court, someone lets it slip that his father is here . 

Richard Zweig, who has never, not once in his entire life attended a single game of Patrick’s, is apparently in the audience at the most important match of his career thus far. 

It’s so unexpected that it almost doesn’t make sense. He can barely comprehend such a combination of words, nevermind that they’ve been spoken to him in his pre-match jitters. 

There’s not even time to dwell on it before he has to step on the court. He wins the toss, and as he takes his position to serve, he swears he can feel a heavy weight on his back. 

* * *

He wins the first set and it goes to his head. It doesn’t help that his opponent—some Argentinian guy in the top 50—practically let him have it. Lulling him into a false sense of security, letting himself wear himself out a bit before turning on the heat and demolishing him. 

He puts up a fight, refusing to go down easy, but it’s not enough in the face of his opponent's lethal forehand. They shake hands while Patrick swallows his disappointment, shaking off the idea that his loss is confirmation that he doesn’t actually belong here. 

By the time he gets back to his chair and starts collecting his shit, he doesn’t even get the chance to wipe the sweat from his face before he’s being pulled away by a USTA official and led to one of the press rooms. 

He blindly follows, assuming it’s for some stupid Tennis Channel junket after getting knocked out of the tournament or something. 

It still doesn’t click into place in his head until he’s crossing the threshold, but by then, it’s too late to turn around. 

In the aftermath of his loss, he’d nearly forgotten.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, mouth working faster than his brain. It’s not quite accusatory, but it’s not a warm and fuzzy acknowledgement by any means. Only once he finishes saying the words does he notice the cameras. 

At the deepening line between his father’s brows, his stomach sinks a little. He tries to smile, like he’s laughing it off, but it comes out stale, even to his own ears. 

He’s rusty at slipping into this persona—the son of a politician. It’s been so long that he’s not even sure the mask still fits anymore.  

“Sorry, it’s just—I wasn’t expecting you. I’m surprised you’re here, is all.” 

“Well, Patrick,” he starts. Patrick is barely able to suppress the shiver up his spine from the obvious fakeness of it. His eyes can’t help but flicker to the photographer, capturing snapshots of this interaction. “It’s not often that my son is playing just down the street. One of my staffers let me know about the tournament and I thought it would be a nice surprise.” 

For fear of saying something stupid, Patrick merely forces his lips into an exaggerated smirk, a little sharp at the edges. 

“It’s a shame I’ll only get to watch you today, though I suppose we can’t all win.”

“Right,” he grits out between clenched teeth, his jaw clenching hard as his grin tightens. 

The photographer clears his throat, getting both of their attention before requesting a few posed pictures. The USTA and ATP loves showcasing high-profile tournament attendees, especially when they have personal stakes in a particular player. As if his father gives two fucks about expanding the influence of the sport. 

Patrick ignores the way his skin crawls at the idea of photos, but at his father’s insistence he obliges. Figures the only way he’d act supportive of Patrick is in front of a camera. Of course being a supportive member of the community serves his father’s image well too, makes him feel more human to his supporters. Patrick just hates the way all of this happens to be at his own expense. How it seems to benefit everyone but him.

Between shots, he whispers under his breath, low enough that only his father can hear, “You know you’ve never watched me play before, right? Not even when I was a kid.”

Practically unaffected, his father replies, voice just as low but full of a cold hardness, “I assume this may be difficult for you to understand, but the rest of us actually work for a living. Making contributions to society, adding value back into the world. I have more important things to do than watch you hit a ball and call it a career.” 

“So why the fuck did you come, exactly?”

Another flash of the camera. 

At his father’s silence, he rolls his eyes, dropping his fake-ass smile. “Just keeping up appearances, right? Playing the part of a supportive father?”

It’s the closest he’s been to talking back—well, since the staircase incident anyway—and the satisfaction is almost enough to soothe the underlying disappointment of knowing that his father isn’t actually here for him. But the safety of others in the room gives him some strength, knowing that his father won’t do anything unbecoming in front of cameras. 

All at once, he realizes he doesn’t have to stand for it. So he doesn’t. 

“We’re done here,” he declares, stepping away from his father and giving the photographer a perfunctory nod. 

With each step he puts between himself and his father, the more incredulous he feels. Of course he would take the opportunity to taint this important milestone for Patrick. Turning his first shot at a prestigious tournament into a fucking PR moment, trying to belittle him in his own house. 

But Patrick’s not a kid anymore, and he doesn’t have to sit there and take his father’s shit. He doesn’t have to entertain this bullshit. 

And even though he lost the match, he knows he played well, and he forces himself to be proud of that. 

Plus, he’s never needed his father’s approval before, so why the hell would he start now?

2015 – Darien, Connecticut

Patrick’s parents are celebrating forty years of marriage. 

Well, he isn’t sure how much celebrating there will actually be, but they’re definitely making a whole show of it. 

Since his sister’s wedding, he hasn’t really been expected to be anywhere or attend any events with his family. Even if they had requested his presence at some point, he was usually busy with a tournament or traveling in a random part of the country. It’s a valid excuse, as far as anyone is concerned. 

Not this time, though. 

It has been stressed to him extensively that his presence at this event is not only requested, but expected. They’re planning a huge party-slash-fundraising event for the occasion, half to celebrate and humble-brag about the impressive Zweig dynasty, and half to raise funds for the upcoming election season. Not only is his father’s Senate seat up for reelection next year, but his mother is also planning to officially be on the ballot as well, running for District Attorney in their county. 

It’s always been a huge part of his father’s platform—being a family man. Somehow upholding traditional family values, while also being progressive enough to support his high-achieving wife and daughter while they subvert typical gender roles. It has definitely helped him appeal to women and moderates alike, which is part of the reason he’s able to maintain office in a blue state as a Republican.

Patrick is typically left out of these conversations, which suits him just fine. He doesn’t need to be a talking point for any fucking conservative pundits, examining how exactly he does or does not fit into the Zweig zeitgeist. 

He’s been dealing with it for years at this point, so he’s well-aware of his parent’s chronic disappointment in his continued attempts at a tennis career. 

Even when his father surprised him by showing up at the DC Citi Open a few years ago—a high level ATP tournament, no less—he could read the chagrin deep in the lines of his face, hiding under his shark-like camera-ready smile. It kills him that Patrick doesn’t have a traditional job, especially now that he’s old enough to have his own mind and his own public persona, no matter how insignificant it may be. 

Sometimes he wonders if his father would even change his tune if he had a more respectable rank. Not that 132 is a bad rank in the grand scheme of things, but it’s not comparable to say, Art Donaldson, at 4 in the world. Would that level of notoriety and the money that comes with it make a difference in his father’s eyes? He’s not even sure. 

But honestly, it brings Patrick a twisted sense of satisfaction knowing that his life irritates his father. Serves him right for touting this wholesome, loving familial image while disgracing it behind closed doors. 

If only all his supporters knew what a family man he actually is. 

Sometimes Patrick wonders if he imagined everything from his childhood. If things actually happened the way he remembers them, or if his anger and resentment toward his parents has manifested into twisted false-memories. Like a coping mechanism, or something—to rationalize in his head why he has such complex feelings about his family. 

Rationally he knows all those things happened when he was a kid, but the older he gets the more he feels himself distance himself from the painful memories, and everyone involved. 

Maybe it’s easier that way. Who fucking knows. Turns out there’s a lot in his life he’d rather forget.

Either way, he’s not sure what exactly to expect. Other than his father, he hasn’t seen anyone from his family since Maddie’s wedding, which hardly even counts. 

It’s also tough, because the event conflicts with two potential tournaments for him. It’s halfway through a challenger in California, and it’s too far for him to feasibly drive to Las Vegas for the challenger there next week. So he’s screwed out of both of them, and there aren’t any other tournaments in the US until next month in November. 

He’s been doing decently well this season, so he was hoping to get a few more good tournaments in while the year is winding down, wanting to start with a strong rank going into January. He has a good feeling about next year—he’s hoping he’ll finally get his chance at a slam.

Rather than have the party at the country club like Patrick expects, his parents decide to hold it at the house—in order to make it seem more personal, he guesses. Or to show off. Or both. 

He’s been driving for days before he finally makes it to Connecticut. He’s planning to stay in a hotel tonight, not keen on the idea of staying in the house when Lord knows how many distant family members will be around. Plus, if previous trends continue into tonight, he’ll be making his Irish-goodbye a few hours into the event anyway. 

Unlike his sister’s wedding, this time he is able to get a quick nap in before he has to get ready, to try to escape the highway fatigue. 

Once he’s showered and shaved, he dresses in slacks, a button down and a sport coat. It’s good enough, he figures. 

He drives over to the house, aiming for fashionably late—really, he just doesn’t want to be among the first to arrive, or be forced to interact with anyone more than strictly needed. 

Parking his car at the far end of the long drive, he makes his way to the garden. Even though it’s mid-October, his parents have spared no expense, placing a heater every few feet. The string lights from Maddie’s wedding have made another appearance, it seems, casting a warm and intimately cozy glow over the entire area. 

There are waiters in all black scattered around, carrying trays of champagne and weird little appetizers, offering to the guests as they mingle around the garden. 

One of the waiters catches his eye right away and approaches him, unprompted. He looks about Patrick’s age, maybe a year or two younger. He’s cute, with tan skin and textured brown hair, styled nicely in tight curls at the top of his head. 

“Champagne?” He asks, offering Patrick a glass.

He holds his eyes just a second too long, while simultaneously giving Patrick a soft smile and a very subtle once-over. If he didn’t know any better, he definitely wouldn’t think anything of it. But he does know better. 

“Thanks,” Patrick responds with a flirty lilt to his voice, his lips raising up on the right side.

The guy looks him over again, intentionally slower this time, and smiles right back. “My pleasure. Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you.”

And with that, he turns to another group of people walking in behind Patrick, not even sparing him another glance. Patrick can’t help but watch him go, ogling his ass openly. 

This night definitely just got a bit more interesting, at least.

He takes a grateful sip of his champagne, already buzzing slightly, despite the notable lack of alcohol in his veins. He definitely wasn’t anticipating a potential lay tonight, but now the prospect of it fills him with a familiar anticipation. Maybe tonight won’t be so awful, after all. 

“Oh wow, I’m surprised you’re still here,” a sarcastic voice says from behind him. 

Maddie. 

When he called her the day after her wedding to congratulate her, she made it clear that she was annoyed by the way he left without a word. Which really surprised him, because he wasn’t sure she noticed he was even there in the first place. 

Still, he apologized and made an excuse, saying he wasn’t feeling well—which was honestly true. He spoke to Charles on the phone and officially met him then, but Patrick could tell that Maddie wasn’t happy with how he handled everything. 

It made him feel silly, the way a tiny part of him hoped they’d be able to actually grow as siblings. Sensing her contempt, it didn’t seem worth it to try. So they continued their mutual streak of silence with each other, and Patrick really hasn’t thought about it since. 

He guesses she still holds on to a grudge, for some reason. He turns to face her, and any retort he could have thrown at her dies on his lips the second his eyes fall on her. 

Well, not her. 

At the fucking toddler in her arms. 

“Uh.”

She’s unphased, maybe even a little smug. “Patrick, you remember Charles, right?” She asks, pointedly ignoring the fucking elephant in the room. 

He shakes his head, like he’s dislodging a blockage in his ears, and looks up at Charles, who he just realized was standing beside her. 

“Yeah,” he says, notably distracted. He tries to turn on the charm, but he’s honestly just so fucking confused it might not work the way he intends. “Hey, man. Good to actually meet you.” Sure, that works. 

Maddie makes a displeased sound at that, but Charles gives him an easy smile. “Likewise.”

“Right…” He looks again at the toddler, completely lost. 

Maddie smirks at him, a complete clone of his own, which is fucking weird, as she finally offers: “Patrick, this is our daughter. Charlie.” 

His grip on the champagne class nearly falters, but he manages to hold on at the last second before it crashes to the floor. 

“ Daughter ?”

He gapes at the kid—his fucking niece —gaze flickering back and forth between her and his sister rapidly. It’s like his brain has stopped working. Can no longer compute. 

“Uh—can I talk to you?” He directs it at Maddie, barely waiting for Charles to take the kid from her arms before gripping onto her wrist and dragging her behind him, to an isolated corner of the party.

“What the fuck ?” He whispers angrily at her, trying not to cause a scene. 

“What?” She asks, defensively, ripping her wrist from his grasp, so forcefully it causes droplets to spill over the rim of the glass in his other hand.

“ What ?” He repeats, stunned. “You had a fucking kid and you didn’t tell me? I know we’re not that close but what the hell, Maddie?”

“It’s not like you asked!” 

“No. No . This isn’t on me,” he huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you still pissed at me for leaving your fucking wedding early? I told you I didn’t feel well, what did you want me to do?”

She lets out an exasperated sigh, “No, Patrick. I just figured if you cared to know you’d actually, I don’t know, make an effort to be a part of this family?”

Has he entered a parallel fucking dimension or something? What the hell is going on?

“Jesus fucking Christ. You made it clear from the day I was born that you wanted nothing to do with me! How the fuck is this my fault? The phone goes both fucking ways.”

When she just rolls her eyes in response, he has to curl his free hand into a fist at his side to stop himself from exploding at her. He takes a few deep breaths, and with an audible hardness to his voice, grits between his teeth, “How old is she?”

He watches her work her jaw, clenching a few times before answering, “Three.”

Three. Three fucking years, he’s been in the dark about this. 

He slams his entire glass of champagne, choking it down in one go. He leaves the glass on a nearby table, hard enough he’s surprised it doesn’t shatter on impact. 

“I—you—you kept this from me for three years ?” 

He flexes both hands now, clenching into fists and relaxing over and over again, squeezing an invisible extension of his rage. His neck goes hot, when he realizes just how far the secret goes. “I saw dad t wo fucking years ago . No one thought it would be something worth sharing?” 

“And what would you have done if you knew? You’re so busy pretending to be a tennis player that you’re never around anyway.”

“Maddie, you literally never gave any indication that you gave a fuck if I was around or not. And it’s not like you were ever around when I was growing up!” An incredulous laugh bursts out of his chest. “This is actually fucking insane. Do you have any idea how much shit I had to deal with, while you were off being the fucking… golden child ? When you couldn’t even be fucked to acknowledge me? You don’t get to blame me for not being around, when you have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.” 

A waiter with the worst timing in the world approaches them, once again with a tray of champagne flutes. It’s not his waiter from earlier, but Patrick still takes the opportunity to grab another drink and escape this conversation. 

Without a parting glance at Maddie—which is something that will apparently piss her off enough to keep something as significant as a fucking child a secret from him for years —he shoulders his way across the garden with a nonplussed scoff. 

The party is in full swing, littered with heavy pocket donors and impressive pedigrees. He’s still fucking reeling—he’s honestly never felt more like an outsider than he does at this very second. 

Living on the road has really disillusioned him from all this opulence and grandeur, the power and influence of his parents’ lives. He’s almost able to forget that it’s in his blood, that he’s tainted with it. He feels so far removed from this lifestyle that it almost makes him nauseous to be here. 

Nursing his drink, he’s thankfully able to go unnoticed for a few minutes, while he tries to control himself, before his mother finds him and requests his presence for a photo-op. 

Even as a kid, the irony of this was never lost on him. How they would literally pose as a happy family, perfect and shiny behind a camera, even when he felt fractured and incongruent with the image being sold.

He tries to force a smile, but the proximity to Maddie and her kid— Charlie —grates on him. Especially, when his father takes the baby in his arms, holding her like she’s his greatest joy. He’s never seen that look on his father’s face before. Ever. 

It’s insane, that they can still manage to find new ways to hurt him, even at twenty-seven years old. That they could be so cruel as to purposefully keep something like that from him. All for what? For staying away when they gave him no other option? For not making an effort to be part of a family that has made it clear time and time again that they want nothing to do with him?

After the photos there’s a lot of Patrick being forced to witness his parents work the room, wearing their best masks for the donors. He stands idly by, barely listening to a word they say, while dutifully nodding along like he’s paying any attention. 

With each person his parents talk to, he builds his defenses higher and higher—they all make the same face when his parents explain that he’s a professional tennis player . It matches the twist of his parents’ lips, like the words physically hurt to leave their mouths, they way they practically spit it like a slur. 

And the kicker is, that even if he was a doctor like Maddie or a lawyer like his parents, he knows they’d still have the same disdain in their eyes. Even if he somehow fit the mold of being a successful son, they’d find something else to nitpick. 

All he can do is let it roll right off his back, and try not to let it sting. His best defense is his indifference to it all. 

After what feels like an eternity, he’s finally able to excuse himself from his parents’ circle. He starts toward the house, like he’s heading to the bathroom, but instead he continues until he’s trailing along the side of the house, turning a corner and hiding himself from view of the party. 

The catering van is parked nearby, with a few of the same black-clad waiters coming and going, but otherwise no one pays him any mind. 

With a final glance over his shoulder to make sure no one followed him, he plucks a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it up quickly. After that disaster, the rush of nicotine may as well be fucking heroin, with the way it mellows him out. 

As he takes a long drag he shuts his eyes, leaning heavily against the side of the house. 

“Not having fun?” An approaching voice asks, a teasing smile evident. 

Exhaling the smoke in a languid curl, he lifts his lips into a cheeky smirk. Still resting lazily against the wall, it’s his turn to give the hot waiter from earlier a not-so-subtle once over as he draws closer. 

Meeting his eyes, he replies, “Is this anyone’s idea of fun?” 

“A fancy party?” He asks, stopping just a foot shy of Patrick. “Yeah, I’d think it’s a lot of peoples’.”

Patrick relents with a lazy shrug of his shoulders, taking another drag. 

The waiter continues, testing the waters when he offers, “Though, I guess it’s not as fun when your parents are involved.” At Patrick’s curious look, he clarifies, pointing behind him toward the garden with his thumb, “I saw you—taking the pictures.” 

“Ah.” He pushes another plume of smoke, directing it up above his head. “Don’t hold it against me.” 

He appears to consider Patrick for a moment, before squinting his eyes and astutely clocking him. 

“Daddy issues?”

And that makes an unexpected laugh burst out of his chest. It should rub him the wrong way, this guy’s brazen audacity, but Patrick honestly finds it refreshing. At least there’s one authentic person in his near-vicinity tonight. 

Plus it helps that he’s practically eye-fucking Patrick, the heat in his gaze nearly palpable. 

Yeah, maybe that has more to do with it, why he finds it oddly charming. 

“It’s, ah— complicated ,” he acquiesces . 

“Isn’t it always?”

Patrick just hums in agreement. Rocking back and forth on his heels, the guy offers, “I’m Brandon, by the way.”

“Patrick.”

“So you don’t want me calling you Mr. Zweig ?” He teases, mispronouncing his name with an exaggerated “W” sound. 

“Fuck no,” he laughs, with an embarrased eye-roll. “Just Patrick.”

“Alright, just Patrick ,” he smiles, stepping forward just a smidge before retreating. “I gotta get back to work, but I’ll, uh, see you in there?”

“Sure,” he nods, going for nonchalant, though the heat on the tips of his ears is surely giving him away. 

“Cool.” And with that, he heads back toward the catering van, loading up his tray with more full glasses of champagne. 

Patrick takes his time finishing his cigarette, trying to delay going back to the party as long as possible. 

Just as he’s snubbing the cigarette butt along the wall, he hears the classic repetitive clink of cutlery on glass, signaling the start of the speeches. He reluctantly starts back toward the garden, slipping in behind the crowd of people gathering. 

When his father steps on the event stage set up on the edge of the lawn, he mentally prepares himself for whatever bullshit he’s going to have to suffer through. 

Brandon comes up beside him, like an angel, and presents him with a glass. Hot and considerate? Yeah, Patrick wants to fuck the shit out of him tonight. 

He gratefully takes the champagne and gives him a heated glance, before slowly turning his attention back to his father. 

“Thank you all so much for coming tonight, it means the world to myself and Diane, to have you all here to celebrate our forty years of marriage and to pledge your support for our upcoming campaigns. It’s been a wonderful forty years, hasn’t it, honey?” He pauses, looking directly at his mother at the front of the crowd. “Diane and I met a lifetime ago, back in 1972, during my last year of undergrad at Yale...” 

Patrick starts to zone out, while his father drones on about his history with his mother, their career paths, their lives together. Even hardly listening, he still catches the way his father describes Maddie as his “beautiful and talented daughter,” while Patrick is just his son. Barely a footnote. 

It’s borderline laughable, at this point. 

Or maybe the champagne is finally hitting him the right way, making everything feel lighter, despite the heaviness that surrounds him. 

He’s always been a little giggly on champagne. 

After a while, his father starts going into detail about his platforms, which after almost twelve years in the Senate, Patrick is sure everyone here already knows. Always the same key words: traditional family values and s upporting the American Dream . 

That is, until he starts on a new topic, one Patrick hasn’t heard from him yet. 

“Now, we have our work cut out for us. I know I’m not the only one here who was disappointed by the legislation passed on same-sex marriage earlier this year. As traditionalists, we know that marriage should only exist between a man and a woman, and I promise to you—my loyal friends and supporters—that I will fight for our families and preserve our way of life.” 

His father keeps talking, but all at once Patrick can’t seem to hear him anymore. Not over the dull pounding of his heart in his ears, or the way his stomach sinks to his feet. 

He thinks he always knew, deep down, that his father was homophobic. It’s definitely not a surprise, when he thinks about it logically. Hell, he practically outright said it, that time he caught him and Art after the Fourth of July party. 

But still—to hear the words so clearly… Patrick feels weirdly taken aback. For a moment, he has a jolt of fear that everyone around him can see it on him, like his sexual preferences are tattooed on his forehead. That his father is talking to him directly. 

He’s long-since come to terms with the fact that he likes both guys and girls. It wasn’t even some ground-breaking, life-altering revelation; it was just a part of himself that he accepted with little resistance, not something he ever bothered fretting about. 

Even when he heard the news about gay marriage becoming legalized nationally, he hardly gave it a second thought. Sure, he’s happy for other people, but it didn’t really impact him. He’s never been into the whole gay pride thing , and he doesn’t really care to make it any sort of cornerstone of his personality. And regardless, he still doesn’t really see marriage on the table for him, guy or girl. 

But to hear that his father is so vehemently against it? It makes him sick. It feels pointed . 

He knows that people feel this way, obviously, but he never really lets it get to him. Sure, he’s careful about it, and smart about who he reveals himself to, but he’s never been ashamed of his sexuality. There’s a difference. But here and now, it twists up inside him, mixing with all his other frustrations from the night, and he’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry. 

As if his father needs another reason to fucking hate him. 

He sips his champagne, and leans into his incredulous humor. It’s definitely laughable, now. 

What he really wants is to get wasted on all the free, expensive bubbly—but he holds back, knowing he’d rather be able to drive away the second shit hits the fan. So he slowly sips his glass, while completely ignoring the rest of his father’s speech. 

His mother speaks next. He can’t tell you a fucking word she says.

Maddie follows, congratulating their parents on a long, happy marriage. Patrick can’t even fucking look at her. 

Instead, he lets his complex mess of feelings fester. By the time the speeches conclude, he’s feeling fucking fired up. Full of vicious, petty spite. 

On a mission, he locates Brandon at the periphery of the space, clearing a cocktail table. 

“Hey—any chance you wanna go for a smoke break?” Patrick asks pointedly, dropping any pretenses of what he’s actually insinuating. 

Brandon looks up at him, surprised, then cocky and knowing. He sucks his teeth and shakes his head. “I don’t smoke.” 

Patrick jolts, half-worried he completely misread everything earlier—fuck, maybe he really is going insane—when Brandon leans in closer. “But…” he sing-songs, “I do get off in like ten minutes. I was part of the set-up crew so I’m almost off the hook.” He leans back with a wink, and Patrick lets out a relieved breath. 

“Don’t go far—I’ll find you when I’m done,” Brandon says, while making his way to another table to clear. 

Patrick takes it as a promise, lets it satisfy his desperate need to rebel. It’s an urge he hasn’t felt since he was a kid, the desire to directly go against his father. And yet, it’s all he can feel, until it nearly overtakes him, roaring like a wildfire. 

Before long, Brandon is approaching him, head lowered so as not to draw attention to himself. 

“Hey man, I’m not really supposed to stick around, once I’ve been cut. Should we get outta here?” 

The smart answer is yes—they should go, either to Brandon’s place or Patrick’s hotel—but he doesn’t want to wait that long. He feels like he’s literally about to fall off a ledge, and he needs to get out of his head right fucking now. Plus it’s been a while, and he’s really fucking horny. 

They could go to his car, but they run the risk of someone seeing them, especially when the party starts winding down. Like a strike of lightning, an idea comes to him all at once. 

“Follow me.” 

No one pays them any attention as Patrick leads them away from the garden, away from any prying eyes. He hurries toward the other end of the yard, across the pool, toward Peggy’s old quarters. She hasn’t lived here in years—the space is definitely just collecting dust now. 

It’s perfect. 

When they make it to the door, Patrick slides his fingers over the top of the door frame, feeling for— bingo . The spare key. 

When Brandon sees the generic yet lavishly decorated converted guest house, he seems to get a little concerned. 

“Is this a good idea? We can go to mine, it’s not that far—”

“It’s fine. I promise.” 

Patrick grabs his arm and impatiently yanks him over the threshold, locking the door behind them. Wasting no more time, Patrick frantically pulls Brandon to him, sealing their lips together. 

Just good, old-fashioned traditional values, right here. Patrick moans at the twisted satisfaction he feels, the rush of this forbidden thing. At the hints of cologne and musk and bulk that is so quintessentially guy . 

Plus, Brandon is a really fucking good kisser. 

“Isn’t your dad, like, anti-gay,” Brandon murmurs between kisses, his lips barely leaving Patrick’s. 

“Apparently.”

Patrick licks his way to Brandon’s neck, where he starts sucking hot, open-mouthed kisses on his throat. 

“This is kinda fucked up.” 

Patrick just hums against his neck, making him moan a little in response. 

“It’s also really fucking hot,” Brandon gasps, before pulling Patrick’s lips back to his with a harsh grip in his hair. 

It’s frantic and needy, the way they grope at each other. Kissing like they’re desperate for it, which at this moment Patrick is . It’s all consuming.

“Come on ,” Patrick huffs against his lips, as he works to get Brandon’s belt undone and unbutton his pants. Following his lead, Brandon is quick to get Patrick’s belt undone too. 

Just as Patrick is about to shove his hands under his boxers and wrap his palm around him, he hears the distinct rattle of a key in the door. 

But it’s too late—before he can even start to remove his hand the door is swinging open.

The two of them spring apart, but it means nothing in the face of their undone belts and Brandon’s unbuttoned pants, or their kiss-swollen lips and roughed-up hair. Even in the dark room, it’s obvious what’s been going on. 

Before Patrick can even look to confirm it, he just knows —Richard Zweig standing in the threshold. The second he meets his father’s eyes, his heart starts pounding in his chest, breaths coming in a little heavier. 

This is fucking bad . Like, catastrophically bad. 

“What— how… ?” He gasps, completely panicky. There’s no way anyone saw them—they’re not even close to being in view of the party. Patrick is sure that no one noticed him leave. 

Brandon is struck silent beside him, holding himself still as if a single twitch of his muscles will alert his father to his presence. 

His father points to Brandon, with a deadly calm exterior. “I suggest you leave my property immediately.” He doesn’t need to be told twice, apparently, given the way he scurries out the door while physically holding his pants up. Just as he’s about to pass his father, he hears, still scarily composed, “If you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, I will hit you with a libel case so hard your grandchildren will still be dealing with it. Understood?”

He nods, a wild, over-exaggerated up and down of his head, while Patrick’s dad steps aside to let him pass. Patrick thinks he turns to give him a final look of concern, but he’s completely blocked from view by the hard slam of the door. 

His father stands tall, dark eyes boring right into Patrick. His face is notably blank. Stoic. The only thing giving him away is that damn vein on his forehead. 

Thinking back to the many times he’s been in this position before, he can’t help but feel a distinct wrongness in the air. He’s afraid to move, to even breathe, as if it will set his father off, disrupting whatever this is. This new quiet stillness. 

His anger is palpable around him, like a heavy haze of fog, overtaking all of Patrick’s senses. All he can feel, all he can think , is danger, danger, danger.  

But this isn’t what he’s used to. More accustomed to his father’s explosive rage, his loud, hard barks of anger—the heavy weight of his stare literally has goosebumps erupting on his skin. Triggering even the most primal survival instincts. 

His eyes stay locked on his father as he starts to pace a slow, ominous path across the room. Patrick can’t even blink. 

“You know,” he starts, voice low as if he’s talking to himself. “I really should have seen this coming…” he trails off, shaking his head to himself. It must be a trick of the light—distorted shadows from the porch lights as they stream in through the window—the way it almost looks like his father is smiling to himself. As if this is fucking funny . 

All Patrick sees are teeth. Sharp, dangerous teeth, that are one wrong move away from ripping right through his jugular. 

“A few years ago, long after Peggy had left, I had security installed on all the doors and windows out here. For safety, of course. To ensure that nothing nefarious was happening, with your mother and I being gone so much. Nothing has ever come of it, all these years. But imagine my surprise, when tonight I get a notification that the door to the guesthouse has been opened. With this many people around, you can hardly blame me for being concerned. I expected to find one of the help trying to find something to pawn. But, oh—I really shouldn’t have been surprised to find you here. Always at the scene of the crime.”

Completely rooted to the floor, Patrick feels like he’s ten years old again. It doesn’t matter that he’s six feet tall, with the sturdy body expected of a professional athlete—standing in his father’s overpowering presence has him feeling fucking microscopic in comparison. 

Regardless of the fact that he hasn’t experienced something like this in close to ten years, it’s instantly like he never left. Clearly his body never forgot the threat of the looming Richard Zweig. 

Patrick’s breathing is labored, but he holds himself taut so as to not give away the panicked heaving of his chest. Almost like he’s standing on a frozen lake, one wrong move threatens to have him crashing through the ice, drowning in an overwhelming icy current. 

And still, his father continues, as if Patrick isn’t two seconds away from reciting fucking Hail Mary’s in his head. 

Guess he retained more from Sunday Mass with Art’s grandma than he thought. It’s almost a comfort.

“And maybe, Patrick, I need to take some responsibility.” If possible, Patrick coils even tighter in on himself, knowing well enough by now to wait for the other shoe to drop. “I’ve allowed this childish behavior of yours to continue for far too long. 

“Your mother and I have given you everything . We sent you to that god-forsaken school to play tennis, as if allowing you to center your life around a hobby is a good use of our money. We’ve funded your lifestyle— ” he spits, “—even as you continue to be a disappointment to our family name. You have no college degree, no prospects, no potential .”

He shakes his head, almost despondent, before fixing his gaze on Patrick and slowly approaching. Predatory.

“You’re a fucking child, playing games for a living. You take, and take, and take, and you give us nothing in return. You continually jeopardize our reputations, have nothing to contribute. And now this? You live a life of deviance and expect it to go unchecked?”

Stopping a few feet shy of where Patrick remains frozen, he fixes him with a cold, detached look of absolute revulsion. 

“I cannot stand by and enable this behavior any longer, Patrick. I’m done. I’m cutting it off.”

Patrick’s eyes barely widen in shock, but it’s enough that his father clearly notices. His voice finally hardens from the eerie faux-casual tone he’d been using.

“Trust me when I say, that for as long as you fucking live, you will never see another cent from me. Your trust? Gone. You are no longer welcome under this roof, and as far as you’re concerned you have no place in this family.”

As the words hit him, he still feels the echoes of his ten-year-old self, so desperate for his parents to notice him. His sixteen-year-old self, uncontrollably sobbing in his best friend’s arms because he just wants his parents to love him.

Even now, he never realized how tightly he was holding onto the tiniest thread of hope that somehow things could change. He knows he’s never truly belonged here, but at least it was something . Shared blood has to count for something . 

But if it doesn’t? That means Patrick is truly, completely, undoubtedly alone . The overwhelming vastness of this realization pulls an involuntary whimper from his throat. 

“You—” he gets out, desperation driving him to nearly fucking begging , “you can’t—”

But before he can even get the words out, it’s like he watches in slow motion as his father raises his hand, curling it across his body to bring it down against Patrick’s cheek in a brutal, ruthless backhand. 

The impact from his heavy gold Yale class ring against his face has him fucking reeling. Even through the ringing in his ears he can hear what sounds suspiciously like a crack . He completely doubles over, groaning through clenched teeth while he tries to clutch at his face. The lightest bit of pressure has him whimpering in pain, recoiling against his own protective hand. 

Before he can even regain his bearings, harsh hands are gripping the lapels of his sport coat and forcing him upright. Completely trapped, his father forces him back until he’s pressed against a wall. 

“What makes you think you get to have a say here? Jesus, the fucking entitlement .”

As he sneers in Patrick’s face, his hands creep up until they are fully wrapping around his neck. Patrick’s eyes bulge as the pressure increases all at once, almost cutting off his air supply entirely. 

In a panic, his own hands try to scrabble for something to hold onto, anything to loosen his father’s grip or push him away. But he’s already dizzy from that first hit, and with his oxygen supply rapidly dwindling his fingers can’t manage to provide any defense. They desperately settle around his father’s wrists, grasp loose and weak. 

“You have never had to work for anything in your fucking life. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is? Having to explain to people that my son has made nothing of himself? All you’ve done is disgrace our name and make a mockery of everything your mother and I have built.”

His grip tightens even further, and as Patrick’s vision starts tunneling he is hit with the very real realization that his father might actually fucking kill him. That the last thing he’ll see are his dark, empty eyes and that oh-so-familiar look of hatred . 

Just as Patrick’s eyes are starting to flutter closed, his body going lax from the oxygen deprivation, his father barely loosens his grip on his neck, before yanking him forward to slam his head back against the wall. 

“And on top of everything, for you to be a fucking faggot? It’s disgusting. No son of mine will be a fucking cocksucker ,” he spits, fully releasing Patrick to drop to the floor. 

He curls in on himself, sucking in harsh, wheezy breaths—desperate to get air back into his lungs. He starts to cough and sputter, choking back dry, overwhelmed sobs. 

Leering over him, his father scoffs, as if he’s dealing with a minor fucking inconvenience. 

“You are dead to me. Do you understand that?”

As Patrick continues to try and breathe, curled on his elbows and knees on the carpet with his eyes squeezed shut, his father’s foot suddenly makes sickening contact with his ribcage. Once, then twice, in rapid succession. There’s no questioning it this time—he’s certain he heard a loud crack on impact. 

He’s barely able to focus on anything but the desperate, guttural grunts forcing their way out of his throat. In the back of his mind, he’s still able to pick out his father’s voice, deathly calm once again. 

“If you ever so much as think about showing your face here again, it will be your last day on Earth. I can promise you that. I’ll kill you myself.” 

And in his gut, in his fucking soul, Patrick knows he means it. 

He almost cries tears of relief when he hears retreating footsteps, heading back toward the door. And yet, because he knows deep down that he’ll never get another chance, that ten-year-old fucking kid overtakes him—has him rasping out, barely audible from the swelling in his throat and the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest: “What the fuck did I ever do to make you hate me so much? I was just a kid .”

But he can’t even give him this one thing . Instead of answering, he looks back at Patrick, as if he’s not a crumpled up mess on the floor, and replies, “If I were you, I’d make myself scarce. You do not want to be here when I come back.”

With that, he opens the door and gently closes it behind him. Leaving Patrick alone, in the dark guesthouse living room. What used to be the only place he felt at-home—felt safe —in this house, back when it was Peggy’s space. 

In the hushed stillness, he lets himself exhale an agonized grunt, unable to hold back for a single second. The familiar taste of blood in his mouth paired with the lightness in his head has him practically hyperventilating, but between his throat and his fucking ribs, it’s impossible to get in a full breath. He can’t help it, the heavy tears that drip down his cheek, off the tip of his nose. 

He’s drooling, he realizes—since swallowing is too difficult a task. It’s twinged with red, staining the carpet under his head. A parting gift, he supposes. 

A morbid laugh-turned-sob bursts out of him, until all he can do is let himself fucking cry. 

The last time he cried because of his father, Art was here, and doesn’t that feel like the final fucking blow? Because instead of curling himself against the only person who ever cared about him— You’re so good, Patrick. You’re so good, and—and I love you —he curls himself against the empty space. 

Emptiness around him, inside of him, everywhere. 

He’s not sure how long he stays there, sobbing on the floor, curled in a ball against the ache in his chest, but he knows he can’t stay. His father’s words echo in his head, the hanging threat of what would happen if he’s not gone in time. 

Clenching his teeth as hard as he can—which isn’t hard enough thanks to the throbbing twinge of his right cheek—he grits harsh breaths as he tries to push himself up to kneeling. 

“ Fuck ,” he gasps, pushing down another sob, when the pressure in his ribs sharpens so much it becomes unbearable. His hands shake as he tries to apply pressure, and he’s not really sure why he does it other than it feels like what he’s supposed to do. 

With a pained grunt, he forces himself to his feet. He can’t straighten up all the way, and his head is fucking spinning, but he’s completely overcome by the need to escape—those innate survival instincts driving him subconsciously. 

Somehow he makes it out the door and hobbles down the long drive, to where he parked his car. The party must still be going on—how is it still going on? It feels like hours have passed—because he doesn’t pass anyone else heading to their cars. 

It takes him a few tries to line up his key with the door handle, with how his vision is blurring and how his hands tremble. Once he finally gets it open, he has to mentally steel himself to heave himself into the driver’s seat.   

A knife-sharp stabbing pain erupts right in the middle of his chest as he straightens out, so severe that he knows something is really wrong. He still tastes blood in his mouth, and his chest tightens with the most real sense of dread he’s ever felt in his life. 

He doesn’t know what to do . He knows he can’t drive like this, but he sure as hell can’t stay here. His father’s threats mean nothing to him at this point, not if he fucking dies sitting in his car before he can come finish the job. 

He needs a fucking hospital. 

Okay, okay, okay. 

He tries to take a steadying breath, but it’s aborted halfway through. His chest is fucking burning, flames licking directly into his lungs with each agonizing breath. 

He knows he’s running out of time. Without another fucking option, he starts his car and manuvers it off the gravel driveway and onto the street. Each tiny bump has him biting back a whimper. 

He’s only driving with his left hand, since his right is still desperately pressed to his ribcage. His vision keeps going in and out, but he forces himself to keep his eyes focused. 

The hospital isn’t far from his house, he can fucking make it. He’s not fucking dying like this, and if Patrick Zweig has ever been anything, it’s a sick determination to spite his father.

His head is swimming—he can’t fucking breathe . Each breath is a desperate wheeze, so shallow he knows he’s not doing anything to get his brain the air it needs. 

And yet somehow, despite all fucking odds, he sees the sign—a bright red beacon in the night—for the emergency room. He drives all the way up to the ambulance door, not giving a single fuck that he’s probably breaking some sort of law, and throws his car in park.

Before he can even unbuckle his seatbelt, everything goes black. 

*

All at once, he’s jolted awake, panic completely overtaking him. Something is fucking wrong . 

Frantically, he looks around, eyes jumping between sterile white walls, monitors, the IV stuck in the crook of his arm, but none of it registers in his desperate hysteria. 

His chest is on fucking fire , it’s swallowing him whole. He’s suddenly too aware of a tube running across his face, poking into his nose. 

He rips the tubing off his face and hastily tries to pull the blankets off his body, their weight smothering him, but before he can do anything a nurse is running into his room, sliding the clear glass door and practically yelling at him to stop. 

She manages to talk him down, and he can tell she tries to explain to him what’s going on, but he’s unable to listen. All he can focus on is the crawling sensation that he’s suffocating. 

When she shows him the fucking tube sticking out of the right side of his chest—he doesn’t think he overreacts. 

And by that, he completely freaks out, overcome by the most white-hot panic he’s ever experienced in his life. He thinks he tries to get out of the bed, maybe he tries to rip his IV out, but it’s all a blur. 

The nurse works quickly, shooting something warm into his IV bag, and almost instantaneously he’s overcome with a dizzying sense of calm—just before passing out. 

*

The next time he wakes, it’s slower. He’s groggy and his head is heavy from the painkillers they’re undoubtedly pumping through his system. Probably some sort of sedative, too, to prevent another freak-out. 

His IV is still in his arm, the tube still tickling his nose. 

As if she can tell he’s awake, a different nurse comes into his room, cautiously assessing him on the bed. 

“Mr. Zweig? My name is Caroline—I’m the nurse taking care of you today. How are you feeling?”

Eyes heavy, he levels her with an unimpressed look, as if to ask how the fuck do you think I’m feeling?

She continues, unperturbed. “Do you mind answering a few questions for me? Afterwards I can help answer any questions you might have, and I’ll have the doctor come see you, okay?” 

At his reluctant nod, she asks her questions: what’s his name, how old is he, what year is it, where is he, who’s the president. He tries to answer, but every word makes him feel like he’s swallowing glass. 

“So, Patrick, you’re in the intensive care unit, and you have some pretty significant injuries. Do you remember anything?” 

Unfortunately, he remembers every fucking second from the second he arrived at the goddamn party to… well, when he left things actually start to get a little fuzzy. He certainly has bruises on his face, let alone the purple collar he’s probably sporting right now. He needs to be careful how he plays this. 

“Got jumped,” he rasps. Which… isn’t a complete lie. Probably believable, with his injuries. 

“Do you know who it was? Would you like to press charges? We can have the police come talk to you.”

He starts, not expecting that, for some reason. But he knows that nothing could ever come from that avenue, even if he wanted to. It’s not worth it, going against the all-mighty Richard Zweig. He’d never come out alive. Literally and figuratively. 

He shakes his head, a reluctant no . 

Patrick half expects her to push him, but she accepts his denial at face value. “If you change your mind, let me know. Now, let me walk you through your injuries…”

The doctor also comes in while she details everything out for him, going slow because he’s definitely still out of it. Blessedly rolling on narcotics. It makes everything feel blunt, dulled. Even his emotions, and honestly, he finds that he likes it, how it quiets everything inside his head.

He apparently has a minor fracture to his cheekbone, soft tissue swelling in his neck—particularly his trachea—and two broken ribs. 

Which just happened to poke a hole through his fucking right lung, causing it to collapse. Hence, the tube sticking out of his chest. 

She says they were able to rule out spinal injuries or brain bleeds, but the doctor suspects he probably has a concussion. Based on the way the overhead light feels like it’s drilling a hole in his eyes, he agrees with that assessment. 

They’ll need to keep him in the ICU for a few days, at least until they can take the chest tube out and make sure his lung continues to heal. There’s a chance he’ll need surgery for the broken ribs, but they want to monitor his progress first. Depending on how his vitals look, they’ll probably be able to take him off the oxygen tomorrow.  

The doctor tells him that he’s lucky he made it to the ER when he did, even though driving there was ‘unbelievably reckless’. 

“One last thing, Patrick, then we’ll let you get some rest,” the doctor prompts, an apologetic hint in her voice. He hadn’t realized that his eyes had closed. 

“When you were in the ER and the doctors were able to identify you, they tried to call the emergency contact in our system—an Art Donaldson?” Hearing his name never fails to startle Patrick. He flinches against it, reminding him of the dull pain in his cheek. “It seems the number has been disconnected or is outdated. Is there anyone else you want to call? We can go ahead and update your emergency contact for you right now.” 

When he first went pro, he put Art down as his emergency contact on every form. Who else would he put? He never actually expected to need it. He hadn’t even remembered that tiny detail. It was just a little thing, barely an afterthought. It made perfect sense at the time—of course Art would be his emergency contact. 

But… this means that Art changed his number. 

It makes sense, as famous as he is. But Patrick didn’t know . Even after he deleted his number from his phone, he never forgot the digits. Holding onto them in his mind, just in case. 

And it didn’t even matter. Because he changed his fucking number. And that means Art cut off any chances of reconnecting with Patrick. How long has that tether been cut from both ends? Without him even knowing?

The doctor looks at him expectantly. He has no one else to call. 

After a moment of somber hesitation, he shakes his head no again, his face twisting up in an attempt to keep himself together. 

“Are you feeling some pain?” The doctor asks, while Caroline is already preparing something off to the side. He nods, yes this time. 

And so the nurse gives him some extra painkillers, and he lets her, because the ache in his heart has to be pathological. 

When the numbness overtakes him, he lets the nothingness of sleep drag him down. 

* * * 

A week after he gets discharged from spending five grueling days in the hospital, Patrick seriously contemplates killing himself. 

It seems like a good enough solution. 

What does he even have to live for? Really?

He doesn’t have a family. His mother is so painfully indifferent toward him that he questions whether or not she remembers he even exists half the time. His sister apparently hates him enough to keep her child—his niece —a secret for years . And his father…

No one in the world loves him. Art picked Tashi over him, even though he swore to Patrick he’d never leave. Tashi obviously resents him, and honestly, she should. He was a shitty boyfriend and what happened to her is at least partially because of him. 

He has no one, not a single person, who would miss him. He doubts anyone would even notice if he was gone at all. 

His body hurts, and his chest aches, and everything he’s been working towards is gone, just like that.

He can’t play tennis. Not for a while, until his lung finishes reinflating and his ribs heal. There goes his good feeling about next season, his goal of finally making it to a slam. Who’s to say he’ll ever be able to play again? Maybe this is his karma for Tashi’s injury, finally catching up to him. 

He’ll be borderline bedridden for weeks, if not longer. The claustrophobia of being trapped inside all day is already grating on him, and it’s only been a fucking week. 

He can’t even smoke—the doctor lectured him ad nauseam about how smoking basically guarantees the chance that his lung will spontaneously collapse again at some point and make his healing process ten times harder. But fuck , the nicotine patches they sent him home with are not cutting it. He feels completely strung out, with no way to release himself. 

All in all, it really feels like he’d be doing the world (and himself) a favor—just taking himself out of it. 

But the saddest part of it all, the part that makes him want to cry, is the knowledge that even if he kills himself, the world will move on, completely unphased. With no one to miss him, there’s no one to mourn him, and there’s a chance that no one would ever know what happened. He’d just slip away into the ether, as if he were never even here in the first place. 

Would Art ever find out? Who would tell him? Would he feel sad? 

God, he’s pathetic. 

He imagines that Art would be at least a little shaken. Tashi too. Would they cry together, and ponder endless what if’s , riddled with regret? Would they wish they could’ve said goodbye? Or would they barely flinch, clinking expensive crystal glasses over dinner while laughing out a good riddance ?

The hospital discharged him with a hefty supply of Vicodin. Probably enough to overdose. He’s like, ninety percent sure. 

In his darkest moments, when he really lets himself get carried away, he fantasizes about going back home and letting his dad finish what he started. At least that would absolve him of his own role in it. 

Or maybe, if he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he could sneak into his father’s office and use the handgun he keeps locked away in the safe to blow his fucking brains out. 

But then, he thinks about how he doesn’t want to give his dad the satisfaction. Why should he kill himself just because his father wants him dead? Why should he die because no one wants him around? 

That determined spite may just be his strongest survival instinct yet. 

And so, in the shithole motel he’s camping out in until he’s well enough to drive back to Tampa, he flushes the pills down the toilet, and remembers his greatest fuck you to everyone—himself included—is to stay alive.

2017 – Columbus, Ohio

The numbers in his bank account are dropping. Rapidly. He’s practically hemorrhaging money. 

After the… incident , his father made good on his promise. His trust was gone before he even got out of the hospital. 

He doesn’t really think that’s legal, but there was no use in fighting it. He very rarely dipped into his trust anyway, mostly using it as a safety net. Otherwise, he’d been doing well for himself, making enough money from tournaments that he had a nice savings built up. 

Turns out—five days in the ICU is fucking expensive. It practically drained everything he had. 

And when he had to take almost the entire last season off, waiting for his injuries to heal and very slowly getting back into shape, his savings dipped even more dangerously low. But therein lies the problem: no tournaments, no prize money. 

When he was cleared to start adding light exercise back into his routine, he took up a private coaching gig in Tampa for a bit, but it was hardly enough to build back up what he lost. It was barely enough to get by, to stay afloat. 

Once he started playing again for real, he had to start with low-paying futures tournaments to take it easy, basically starting at square one. Even though he was able to secure a protected ranking status, it was a slow comeback and his rank still ended up suffering because of it. 

He was rusty, and stressed, and frustrated with himself. It took months for him to start playing semi-decently again, but even that’s generous. 

And even now, almost two years out, he’s still nowhere near the level he was at in 2015. It’s starting to really sink in that he’ll probably never be at that point again, and there’s a pretty strong chance that he’ll never actually see a slam in his future. Not anymore. 

But one thing about Patrick: he’s never been good at letting things go. Not where tennis is involved.

So he got rid of his place in Tampa, started cutting his spending. The hotels he stayed at got worse and worse, and his meals a little bit smaller and cheaper. Definitely nutritionally worse for him. Obviously it didn’t do his game any favors—playing on an empty stomach and sleeping on lumpy mattresses. 

Half the time, the winnings are so small that he can barely afford to make it to the next tournament. He feels like he’s trapped in an endless cycle, and he isn’t sure how he’s going to be able to claw himself out. 

Sometimes he’ll use Tinder as his own version of AirBnB. He usually gets away with it, pretending to fall asleep immediately after his orgasm. He’s found that most people won’t bother to wake him and kick him out, especially if he does his part well. 

They’re not his proudest moments, but it works. And honestly, he usually finds that he sleeps better with another body beside him, a comforting reminder that he’s good for something , that he’s not completely alone. 

When he’s really desperate he’ll go on Grindr, angling for some rich, probably closeted, older man to take him out to dinner before bringing him home. It’s shocking, how much some of them are willing to pay—buying him expensive steak dinners and rich desserts—just to fuck him. And he knows how to work them, with an expertly placed pout or a seductive quirk of his lips. 

If only his father could see him now, putting that classic Zweig charm to good use. 

It’s really not that bad. Most of the older guys take him to nice hotels instead of their houses (and probably their wives), which is great for him. He’ll stay and take advantage of the luxurious bathrooms, the soft beds and clean sheets. Usually that alone is worth the empty way his stomach twists the next morning, the emptiness that chips a tiny bit away at his soul each time. 

Most of the time it really is fun, at least in the moment. He’s always liked sex, taking someone apart and opening himself up to other people. He’s good at it, and he knows it, and it’s nice to be validated every once in a while. 

At the end of the day, he does what he needs to do to survive. It’s just a way to get some free food, a free place to sleep. A sliver of human connection amongst the isolating life he’s carved out for himself. 

But when he arrives in Columbus for their annual challenger, he can’t help but feel like he’s being followed by a ghost. The last thing he wants to do is sleep with a random person, not when his heart clenches with memories of his previous life. 

He tells himself it’s the familiarity that pulls him to Art’s old neighborhood, nothing more. He’s exhausted from a full day of driving, and it’s basically his brain working on auto-pilot. That’s why, before he knows it, he’s turning his car on a familiar street, slowing while he scans the houses for the one he remembers from years ago. The one that had so much care seeped in the walls, with flowers decorating the front yard, a painstaking labor of love from Alma herself. 

Even though it’s dark outside, Patrick would recognize the house anywhere. He’s a little startled to see a minivan parked out front, and what looks like chalk drawings covering the sidewalk and driveway. 

Figures Art sold it. He’s just surprised by how betrayed he feels by it. 

Trying to see through the outer brick walls, he imagines the new family living there now—picturing a mom and a dad and two kids. A boy and a girl. They have weekly movie nights and play board games on the weekends, and they eat dinner together every night. Both parents are teachers, he decides, and they have the summers off. Maybe they’ll take yearly trips up to Chicago, all of them as a family. They live a happy life, in their happy home. 

He spares a single, painful, thought to Art’s grandmother. He hopes she’s not looking down on him right now, disappointed in him for breaking his promise to always take care of her grandson. For never making anything of himself. 

Clearing his throat against the growing thickness there, he drives away. There’s nothing here for him. 

Was there ever? It’s a bitter thought. One he tries to shove down, before it grows and festers into something sour. 

He doesn’t have enough money to stay in a hotel and eat this week, so he heads to the park that he and Art would frequent during their summers together. Just another familiarity, that’s all. It’s a comfort, being somewhere he knows for once, when he spends most of his life in unfamiliar places, around unfamiliar people. 

Finding a dark corner of the lot, under a tree, he cuts the engine. 

Getting out of the car, he saunters over to a picnic table and lights up a cigarette. Just one. He only lets himself smoke when he has to skip dinner, just to dull the pang in his stomach. To curb his appetite enough to fall asleep. 

Even if he gets knocked out of the challenger tomorrow, he’ll still walk away with enough to feed himself for a while, at least until he can make it to California for the next one. 

The air is still warm, with a pleasant breeze. The park is full of the sounds of cicadas chirping, their song lulling him into a rare state of relaxation. Watching the trails of smoke move up towards the sky, he stares at the stars, twinkling above his head. 

When they were in high school, Art went through a phase where he got really into astronomy. Stars, in particular. He spent his nights reading up on the constellations and the long history behind the folklore of it all. On clear nights like tonight, he’d often drag Patrick up to the roof of their seventh grade dorm—no one ever managed to fix the alarm—and spend hours pointing out shapes in the stars. 

Patrick didn’t much care about the details of it, but hearing Art blab about Orion or Gemini or Ursa Major and Minor never got old. Art would stare at the sky and Patrick would stare at him, watching enraptured as his best friend got so excited over something so much larger than himself. 

When Art would point up to the sky, asking if he could see the pictures too, Patrick would always lie and say he couldn’t. Even if he could, he’d always say no, just so Art would come up close and angle his head just right, trying to blend their visual fields together to help Patrick see. 

The longer they stayed out, the more mushy and romantic Art would get about the night sky. He’d go on and on, about how everyone looking up at the sky would see the same stars, the same moon. Maybe the pictures would be different, but overall the sky was the same for everyone. 

Maybe Art looked up at these stars, these exact same ones, when he was a kid. Before Mark Rebellato, before Patrick—he imagines baby Art looking up at the sky, feeling so small in the face of the vast galaxy about their heads. 

All he remembers how to find is Orion’s belt. One, two, three stars, perfectly aligned. 

He wonders if Art ever takes the time to look at the stars anymore. He hopes he does.

Maybe—just maybe—he’s looking at them right now, too. 

2019 – New Rochelle, New York

Patrick can feel Art’s sweat on his skin, mingling with his own. Clinging to his neck, his arms, the shirt over his chest. 

Even all these years later, he still smells exactly the same. Like laundry detergent and his spicy deodorant, and underneath it all something that’s just quintessentially Art . The lingering hint of it on his own clothes drives him a little crazy, sends him back in time. All at once he’s back in their dorm room at Mark Rebellato, or clinging to each other after a doubles victory. 

It’s distracting. That—and having a moment to breathe into his (ex?) best friend’s neck reminded him just how exhausted he is. 

They’ve been playing for hours under the scorching August sun, and Patrick hardly slept last night after everything with Tashi. He feels completely drained, in every sense of the word.

And now he’s had his first contact with Art’s skin in twelve years and he’s so close to either getting everything back or having it ripped away from him for good, and what the fuck are they even still playing for?

It doesn’t matter who wins. They’ve already played the best tennis either of them have played in years . And yet, when they release each other and reset back to the service line, the exhilaration of it has been sucked out of him—leaving him frayed out like a raw nerve. 

Art wins in the end. Patrick can’t really be fucked to care. The actual game feels so inconsequential in the face of everything else. 

Patrick doesn’t meet his eyes when they shake hands at the net. He doesn’t seek Tashi out in the stands. 

Instead, Patrick uses all the excitement of Art being presented with his stupid fucking trophy and his winnings to slip away. It’s all too much, all at once. 

Jerking the locker room door open, he makes his way to the blessedly empty showers. He turns on the water for the corner shower, twisting it all the way to the right until it’s as hot as it will go. While he waits for the water to warm up, he strips off his drenched tank and kicks off his shoes and socks. 

Leaving his shorts on for now, he drops himself on a bench outside the shower area, resting his elbows on his knees and shoving his fists against his eyes. He presses until bright red and yellow spots erupt against his eyelids. 

He can still feel Art’s sweat. Can still smell him, even without his shirt. 

He’s not sure he actually has it in himself to wash it off. Not yet. 

The spray of the shower creates a soothing white noise in the background, and steam from the heat of the water starts curling around him, thickening the air. And yet, he stays on the bench, unable to make himself move. 

He gets lost in a trance, he thinks—just replaying that final game. Art’s smirk, so clear even from all the way across the court. Their breathtaking volley. Art falling into his arms, as if in slow motion. The feeling of Art’s arms tight around his neck, he breathless laughter against his throat. Over and over and over again. 

That, paired with the repetitive sound of water on tile must be why he doesn’t hear the locker room door open. 

“ Hey ,” a hard voice snaps, almost impatient. At the same time he feels a rough kick to his inner ankle, jostling his leg out from under his elbow. 

Patrick’s head jerks up, and he gulps as he finds himself face to face with Art. 

All of his cocky bravado from the sauna yesterday is gone, leached out of him the second he detached from Art, as if he sucked Patrick’s entire life force out by his skin. 

Art looks exactly as he did in the sauna, though, all harsh lines and quiet anger. 

Seems like no one’s grinning anymore, now that the match is over. 

For lack of anything else to say, he flashes a meek closed lip smile before looking off to the side, mumbling a neutral, “Good game, man. Congrats.”

Art, working his jaw and studying Patrick’s face, just responds, “You left.”

Patrick sucks his lips into his mouth, dragging a lethargic breath in through his nose. “I just didn’t feel like dealing with all that —” he says, waving a non committal hand roughly in the direction of the door. The cameras, the questions, the pats on the back. Staying out there a second longer would honestly be his undoing. The final nail in the coffin. 

Art just watches, eyes narrowing slightly. His face is mostly void of emotion, and it makes Patrick feel twisted up inside. He’s always known how to read Art like a book, and he doesn’t know what to do in the face of his new, robotic version of him, so unfamiliar after all the time that has passed. 

“Tashi must be proud,” he tries. Art snaps out of it at that, his eyes lighting up with that same lethal rage from the court, when he tried to take Patrick’s head off with his enraged serve. 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he deadpans.

Rolling his head around his neck, he lets out a resigned sigh, “ Art —”

“No seriously , Patrick,” he interrupts, voice growing louder with every word. “I mean, where the fuck do you get off? Bringing her up after that ? Is everything just a fucking game to you?”

Patrick shoots to his feet, shouldering Art out of the way as he stalks toward the shower. He angrily twists the nozzle back to the left, shutting off the water and draping the locker room in a heavy silence. 

He turns back to face the lockers and isn’t surprised to see that Art has followed him onto the tile, and is watching him with his hands on his hips from a few feet away, practically vibrating. 

“Oh, are we talking about tennis?” He bites out, voice dripping in acerbic sarcasm. “Because I coulda sworn you said that’s all you care to talk to me about, right?” 

Art drops his head back, his hands curling around the back of his neck in evident frustration. He pushes out an exasperated breath through pursed lips, then replies, much softer now, “I shouldn’t have said that.” Caught off guard, Patrick’s eyes jump to Art’s. They’re both breathing heavy, like neither of them has been able to completely come down from the match. Almost like they’re still playing. 

They continue to stare at each other for a moment, while Patrick watches the hard iciness of Art’s eyes melt, ever so slowly. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and Patrick’s eyes fall to it, the way it still glistens with sweat. He wonders how much of it is his own sweat, still lingering on Art’s skin. 

“And I shouldn’t have said you don’t matter.” Art laughs then, a bitter, joyless sound. “I actually didn’t come in here to yell at you,” he adds, the right side of his mouth quirking the tiniest hint upward, until he starts worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Well you’re not off to a great start.” Patrick shifts on his feet, crosses his arms in front of his bare chest, feeling almost self-conscious in the face of Art’s unexpected honesty. “What did you come in here for?”

“To talk?” It’s an offering. As close to an olive branch as he’ll get from Art, as stubborn as he is. He knows from experience, because Patrick is just as stubborn. 

He stares for another beat. “So talk.” Patrick means for it to come off strong, but it’s nearly a whisper.

Art chews on his lip a little more before hesitantly stepping closer. Patrick stops breathing, his mouth going desert dry when Art lifts a gentle hand to his jaw. His eyes threaten to flutter shut when Art’s thumb rubs back and forth—so soft—over his cheekbone. 

“I missed you too, you know.” Their gazes are locked together. When did they get so close?

“You did?” 

Art nods, a subtle move. He takes the opportunity to press their foreheads together, his hand still caressing Patrick’s face. He can feel Art’s breath fanning over his lips, and he can’t bring himself to move a single millimeter, for fear that this strange spell between them will break. 

“When I looked up back there and you were gone, I freaked out. I—I panicked,” he starts, bringing his other hand up to cup Patrick’s jaw too. “I was so scared that you’d already left, and that I’d fucked everything up before we’d get to talk.” He uses his hold on Patrick’s cheeks to pull him back, so their eyes meet again, Art’s blazing into his. “We need to talk. For real. All three of us—there’s so much we need to unpack. But I missed you so much , Patrick, and I want us to work through this, okay? I’m done letting you go.”

And Patrick almost doesn’t let himself believe the words coming out of Art’s mouth. It’s everything he’d been dying for for the past twelve years, and so it must be too good to be true, right? 

But he thinks back to the match. To that perfect moment where he and Art transcended the game. Tashi got it right, all those years ago. For a perfect fucking moment, it was as if he and Art understood each other completely—like they didn’t exist. Like everything and nothing had happened between them, like time had never had the chance to take so much from them. 

Art must have felt it too, how much bigger this thing is than the two of them. Or even the three of them. 

And Patrick wants so desperately to just… give in. He’s been floating, completely untethered, all alone for years. And here’s Art, a beacon of light in the dark sky, offering him a lifeline. It almost feels wrong, accepting a helping hand when it’s such an unfamiliar thing to him now. 

But it’s Art . And at the end of the day, he’d trust him to go anywhere, even to his own detriment. And he’s fucking tired of pretending he’s not aching inside every day without him. Without them . 

So he nods. Whispers in a thick rasp, “ Okay .”

When Art pulls him into a desperate embrace, cradling the back of his head—a mix of tenderness and protectiveness—Patrick clings, fisting his hands in Art’s pristine Uniqlo polo. They’ll need the jaws of life to pry him off of Art now. 

Something that might be a laugh, might be a sob, bursts from his chest, and Art just hugs him tighter.

He lets himself completely melt against Art, fully relaxing for the first time since everything fell apart. He’d almost forgotten—what it feels like to come home .

Chapter Text

September 15, 2019 – Darien, Connecticut 

The Funeral 

It storms the day of the funeral. 

Not just rain—but a fierce, raging thunderstorm. The air is thick and hot with pressure, while wind blusters against the large floor-to-ceiling windows of the funeral home. Heavy droplets pummel down against the roof violently, falling in thick sheets that obscure the view of the coastline through the glass. 

It feels fitting, in Patrick’s mind. Like God or the Universe or whatever greater force that may or may not fucking exist out there is giving one final warning to the funeral attendees to Stay Away! 

Bright flashes of lightning that illuminate the sky and thunder that cracks so loudly it causes his bones to vibrate surely must be a Biblical-level bad omen, right? Some sort of divine proof that his father was a wicked man, undeserving of a calm day to be laid to rest. 

And yet, the funeral home is packed to the brim. Full of country club goers and former law partners, neighbors and fellow politicians, official photographers all the way from Capitol Hill and journalists from the local newspaper. 

It seems the storm was unsuccessful at derailing the day of “mourning”. 

Patrick holds himself taut in a pew—though, he supposes this isn’t technically a church, so is it really even a pew? Or is it just a bench? Are pews reserved for places of religious worship? His only experience in a church was so long ago, and—much like now—he found that his mind couldn’t help but wander during services. Alma paid rapt attention, hanging onto the priest’s every word, while Art at least looked like he was paying attention, but Patrick spent the hours staring at the stained glass windows, or flipping to random pages in the Bible or book of Hymns trying to find dirty words hidden in the scripture. 

Even though his family celebrated Hanukkah during the holidays, they certainly didn’t adhere to any other Jewish traditions. His mother was the one who grew up Jewish, whereas his father grew up a non-denominational Christian. Still, church or religion or God himself was not a mainstay in the Zweig household by any means. 

Clearly. 

So… right. Not a church. Still maybe a pew? 

Regardless, he’s sitting on a stiff bench, fighting the urge to carve a divot into the wood under his thigh with his fingernail. 

Peggy is sitting to his immediate right, and Art to his left, then Tashi along the outside aisle. They’re about halfway between the back, where the selectively approved photographers stand capturing the scene, and the front, where his mother and sister’s family sit, just shy of the podium and the altar with framed photos of his father. 

Even if he had the mental wherewithal to consider how it looks that he’s sitting separately from the rest of his family, any ability he’s had to give a fuck about it disintegrated yesterday. 

He’s here, and dear God, it has to be enough. 

Enough to disparage any greedy journalists or conservative pundits from writing think-pieces about his “possible estrangement” from his father. And maybe if he looks miserable enough it’ll prevent anyone from digging their fingers into his gaping wounds and searching for a story. 

But that’s as far as he’s willing to go. Pretending to play nice with his family would be a step too far, would send him right off the fucking ledge—where he’s been precariously dangling for thirty-one goddamn years. 

So yeah, he’s done. 

With his mother, his sister. His eyes have finally been opened to the fact that any relationship is completely unsalvageable—and has been for a while. Maybe since the day he was born. 

He’s just done holding onto that frayed string of hope, praying that he doesn’t drop to his death in the abyss below. 

If he never sees either of them again for the rest of his life, it still won’t be long enough. 

As far as the actual funeral goes, he has lost track of who is speaking at this point. Where Patrick is concerned, each and every eulogy has fallen on deaf ears. There’s a program, but he doesn’t bother to follow along. What’s the point, if he’s not paying attention anyway?

He feels like he’s in a trance. Ever since he woke up this morning, trapped between Art and Tashi, he’s felt completely and utterly numb. Like his body woke up but his mind stayed behind, in an unaware and unfeeling fugue state. 

Lights are on, but no one’s fucking home. 

He doesn’t think he’s felt this detached from reality since he was in the hospital four years ago, pumped full of morphine and Ativan. Suspended in a substance-induced calm state to dull the pain and keep him relaxed enough to not care about the fucking hole in his chest. 

After the confusing monsoon of emotions he’s dealt with this past week—and especially yesterday with his fucking panic attack —this blunted numbness is honestly welcome. He doesn’t feel sad, doesn’t feel overwhelmed, doesn’t feel angry or vindictive or indignant. 

He doesn’t feel anything.  

Maybe it’s his mind pulling out one last protective measure, trying desperately to contort one last bit of armor around his heart before it gives out for good. 

So instead of focusing on his father’s fucking funeral, he stares at the head of the man in front of him, counting the grays in his salt and pepper hair. He rubs the pew-slash-regular unreligious bench with his fingertips, just a light pressure, tracing the worn varnished wood in an attempted soothing motion.

He wiggles his toes in his shoes. His feet are still wet. Socks and shoes completely soaked through from the short walk inside. 

He wonders if Art is dealing with the same problem. If he is, he isn’t letting on about it. Patrick knows he can’t stand the feeling of damp socks. Even if they got too sweaty during a match as kids, he’d often swap out for a fresh pair between sets. Once he became aware of this little quirk, Patrick always kept an extra pair in his gear bag too, just in case Art ever needed them. 

When he noticed the rain this morning he should’ve thought to bring an extra set. Though, now that he thinks about it, he hardly remembers getting himself dressed at all. Everything is a fuzzy, practically anesthetized blur. 

Besides… Art is a big boy. He’s spent most of his life without Patrick and his backup socks. 

Just as the current speaker appears to give his closing remarks, a quick bolt of lightning cuts across the stormy sky, segmented by the panes in the window. People start to clap, but the booming thunder drowns the sound of polite applause out. 

At least Mother Nature seems to be taking his side today. 

Don’t clap for him. 

Another person, whom Patrick has never seen before in his entire fucking life, steps up to the podium to take their turn. He’s young, shiny and put-together in only the way a politician can be. 

He risks a glance to his left. Art and Tashi are sitting perfectly still, then epitome of poise. But Patrick knows them well enough to see the stiffness in their postures, the way their eyes flit toward Patrick every few words. Monitoring for signs of life. 

“Good morning everyone. For those who don’t know me, my name is Jonathan Rothschild, and I’m a relatively newly elected Congressman from the great state of Indiana. I’ve been so lucky to have had the honor and the privilege of getting to know Senator Zweig over the past few years, to have him take on a mentor role for me as a young Republican leader…”

The words rush over Patrick in a blur, just as they have all morning. 

Blah, blah, blah.

In one ear, out the other. 

None of it fucking matters.  

His eyes passively trail to his left once more, catching on the white-knuckle grip that Art and Tashi have on each other’s hands. He can’t see Tashi’s face, but he can see the way the corner of Art’s eyes crease, the way his teeth clench and unclench repeatedly. 

The muscle in his jaw jumps out almost in time with the howling wind, whistling against the paneling of the smaller windows.

The room is starting to become slightly sticky with humidity, the walls unable to keep out the moisture from the storm. It makes his fingers stick slightly to the pew-bench, where they’re still tracing mindless circular patterns against the wood. 

He switches to silently drumming his index and middle fingers instead. A barely-there rhythm. 

Something to keep his body here, while his mind continues to wander. Thoughts muddled and mushy like the sopping Earth outside. 

Patrick has never really given any critical thought to whether or not he believes in God. Heaven, Hell—anything of the sort. He guesses that makes him agnostic, or whatever. It’s not like he needs to put a label on his ambivalence toward the idea of an otherworldly being, something greater than this life. Maybe it’s there, maybe it’s not—who is he to say? 

“Senator Zweig has always been a role model to me, someone I’ve looked up to for many years. He was the rare type of leader who actively listened to all sides, while holding steady in his convictions. He was fair, but headstrong. Persuasive, but accommodating…”

Beside him, Art is unable to completely suppress a cynical scoff. He plays it off as clearing his throat, but Patrick can tell that he’s irritated, even without turning to look at him.

Rain blows directly against the glass with a rapid change of direction, almost as if the heavy droplets are fighting to break through the barrier and flood the whole room. Needing to cleanse everyone in here, all who gathered to honor someone evil. 

The sound of the rain drowns out the rapid tap, tap, tap of his fingers. 

Patrick can see why people might find comfort in the idea of a God, but he doesn’t like the idea of God’s will. As if some old fucker in the clouds is pulling all the strings, or allowing certain things to happen because he wills it to be so.  

It seems like a fucking cop-out way for people to avoid taking responsibility for their actions. 

Because sometimes people do bad things. Some people are bad. But he doesn’t believe that it’s because God made them do those things, or made them bad. 

And sometimes—a lot of the time—good people do bad things. How the fuck is God able to differentiate between them? 

Is it possible to be both? 

“Senator Zweig was such a dutiful mentor, the way he took me under his wing years ago when I was first elected. Honestly, he became a sort of pseudo-paternal figure for me, out on Capitol Hill…”

Patrick doesn’t know if he’s a good person. Not that he thinks he’s a bad person, but… 

He’s done some bad things, he knows. 

But Art and Tashi—they’ve also done bad things. And he considers them good, right? Hell, they’ve done bad things to him— and vice fucking versa—so maybe none of them are bad people. 

His father, on the other hand, is a bad person who has done fucking awful things. There’s no debating that.

But apparently, there is. 

Because everyone else who showed up here today thinks his father is some fucking saint. No one would dare speak an ill word against him, especially now that he’s gone. But no one knows the dark truth hidden behind closed doors, how he is a true wolf in sheep’s clothing.

To most people in this room, Richard Zweig was a good person. Are these people finding comfort in the idea of him looking down on them from Heaven?

Does Patrick want to find comfort in the idea of his father burning in Hell, where he knows he belongs? Is the image enough to make him believe in Hell at all?

Tap, tap, tap.

“And so my heart goes out to his family—particularly to Madeline and Patrick. I can’t imagine the depth of this loss you must be feeling…”

Movement catches in his peripheral vision; Art’s hand, the one not trying to break the bones in Tashi’s fingers, curls into a tight fist at his side. Tashi’s legs cross and uncross, as she shifts her weight in her seat. 

It occurs to him that they’re angry. They’re filled with all the indignant rage that Patrick should be feeling. 

He’s hit with the strangest sensation, like he’s watching everything from outside his body. As if he’s seeing a physical manifestation of his emotions from the past week on their faces, while he now sits as an empty shell. Everything he should be feeling has been transplanted to them . 

He’s not sure why it strikes him as odd, or like their anger is misplaced, somehow. They still hardly even know the basics regarding Patrick’s history with his father, and yet they’re subtly seething beside him while Patrick can’t even muster up a single fuck to give this entire morning. 

Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap.

Another bright flash of lightning illuminates the rain-blurred windows. At the same time—as if the electricity from the bolt possesses him directly—Patrick rises from his seat. He’s barely conscious of the decision to move, but his legs have him stepping over Art and Tashi, ignoring their questioning glances. 

Keeping his head down, he walks toward the back of the room, as inconspicuous as possible, but his movement attracts some attention from the journalists. He can hear the distinct click of a camera shutter, but he pays them no mind as he slowly opens the door into the foyer. 

At least the booming clap of thunder covers the sound of the door closing behind him. 

Without bothering to stop at the coat check to retrieve his jacket or umbrella, he continues his forward momentum directly outside. 

Right into the storm. 

His clothes are fully soaked through in seconds, water seeping down through his skin into the fascia and muscle and bone beneath the surface. The heavy raindrops hurt as they ruthlessly pelt against his skin, but he turns his face up toward the sky anyway, chasing the physical pain to at least feel something . 

Maybe the armor placed around him this morning was nothing more than sugar, a hard candy coating. The longer he stands out in the rain, it’s as if the barrier around his heart dissolves, melting away the walls he’s spent years building up. 

Like he’s coming inside after hours in the cold, his fingers burn with pins and needles as feeling starts returning. Then all at once, the torrential downpour becomes the external manifestation of his insides once again, as the emotion comes flooding back.

The spark of adrenaline almost has him feeling that familiar itch to run run run—get away—escape . Fight or flight starts kicking in. 

The only thing keeping him in place is the fact that he has nowhere to go, especially as the wind and rain rage dangerously around him. 

So he restlessly starts to pace. Back and forth, back and forth—sloshing through puddles so deep that the water licks at the hems of his dress pants. 

It’s almost poetic, how this storm is the result of such perfectly aligned conditions—forming only when the pressure increases in the atmosphere enough for it to explode into a dangerous mess of pouring rain and gusting wind and sizzling electricity. 

He knows that pressure can only build up for so long before something has to give. 

And like the weather, he’s hit his threshold. After bottling in every bit of pain, every dirty little secret, every piece of hurt that he’s kept hidden away all these years, he feels about ready to burst. Any second now, he fears he’s going to go off like an atomic bomb or spiral like a tornado, leaving untold amounts of destruction in his wake until there’s nothing left but complete and utter ruin. 

It makes him think back to what Tashi told him the morning after the news broke, when she was trying to get him to come here. 

It will follow you around for years, Patrick. The easiest way out is to go.

Or last night, when Art told him in not-so-many words that he needs to deal with his shit. 

Or how he’s been running from this all week, desperate to go back to how life was before his father died and shined a light on just how much shit he’s actually shoved down. 

He always runs.  

But he never escapes.  

And nothing ever gets fixed. 

It all just gets buried away, and now it’s coiling around his entire being like a cancer, metastasizing itself into every cell in his body—so much so that he can’t even tell what’s diseased and what’s healthy anymore. 

He did it with his father. With the abuse. 

With his mother and her neglect. 

Even with Art and Tashi. With Art’s abandonment and Tashi’s callousness. He was just so glad to finally have them back that bringing up the past felt too dangerous, like taking too many steps back would send them away again. 

He’s been so desperate to not have to face anything ugly that he’s willing to see the world through rose-colored glasses, or turn a blind eye completely. He’s spent his entire life covering his wounds with fucking scraps, hoping in vain that they’d eventually heal on their own without doing any work to treat the underlying cause. 

But all he did was plant pretty flowers in the soil, without realizing that the Earth was rotten below the surface. 

And he let himself get away with it. Even now.

Sure—he, Art and Tashi grazed the surface of their problems. The three of them collectively decided that dwelling on past transgressions wouldn’t change anything that’s already been done. That they could start off on a clean slate, and actually fucking do this together. All of them. 

And it had been so good. So easy to fall into something new, something that always felt inevitable. Or at least, he thought it had been. Now that the curtain has been pulled, he’s not sure of anything anymore. 

It’s all bubbling up and twisting together, as if everything that’s ever made him upset in his entire life is fighting to escape all at once. 

Fuck, he’s so fucking confused . 

There’s no time for him to sit with these new revelations, now the dam has been broken, before he notices a tall figure approaching him, coming from the lobby of the funeral home. He’d know that silhouette anywhere, the way it never fails to make his heart clench.  

Even holding his umbrella, Art has no chance against the unsteady sideways falling rain. Patrick watches as it almost glitters against his suit jacket. 

“What are you doing out here?” Art asks, raising his voice so his words don’t get swept away in the wind. 

What the fuck does it look like? He doesn’t ask. 

What the fuck am I doing? He doesn’t ask. 

No, really… Can you tell me? He doesn’t beg.

“Go back inside, Art,” he says instead, trying to be firm because it’s easier to deflect, deflect, deflect.

Art being here just makes him feel more confused, like his brain is unraveling even further. 

“It’s a fucking hurricane out here, man,” Art continues, holding the umbrella up so it’s uselessly covering half of Patrick too. His eyes bore into Patrick’s, and he tries not to cower under the intensity. A shiver runs down his spine at the way Art’s eyes soften. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on? ” Patrick repeats, incredulous.

“You know what I—”

“Oh, I know what you meant. You’re just worried about me, right?” He lets out another scoff, unable to control himself. He’s always had a nasty habit of wanting to make Art bleed alongside him when he’s feeling backed into a corner. As if it isn’t part of his whole fucking problem. 

It’s just always been so easy to make him collateral damage. 

“Well you don’t need to be, okay?” He continues, unable to hold his eye, hoping it’ll push him back inside. “I’ve been perfectly fine for years . I don’t need you to worry about me.” 

“Patrick, stop. I know what you’re fucking doing.”

“I’m not fucking doing anything.”

Art steps closer, until they’re practically chest to chest under the umbrella. A small pocket of sanctuary in the raging storm. 

“You’re trying to push me away because it’s easier than actually confronting your problems. And you know what? You can keep trying, but it’s not going to work. I’m not going anywhere, and I think you know that.”

A frustrated growl rips from his throat, before he gives one last attempt. “I’m serious, Art. Just go back inside.” 

In response, all Art does is collapse the umbrella before tossing it out of reach. Within seconds he’s completely soaked too, rainwater seeping through the layers of his suit. All Patrick can think in that instant is how wet his feet are going to get. 

“Why did you do that?” Patrick asks, an air of defeat starting to color his words.

“If you’re staying out here, so am I.”

Always so fucking stubborn. 

“Fine. Suit yourself,” he spits.

“Great. I will,” Art spits right back.

A bright strike of lightning cuts across the sky, followed by a deafening boom of thunder. And still, Art barely pays the weather any mind, only keeping his narrowed eyes locked on Patrick. Maybe the reason he always feels the urge to bring Art down with him is because he never actually lets it happen. 

Just as quickly as his mess of emotions broke through, he feels all the fight start to leak out of him, his flames rapidly extinguished. Bringing his hands around the back of his neck, he lets out a tired sigh. 

“I just… couldn’t be in there anymore.”

Art deflates a bit too. 

“I know.” Stepping closer, Art brings his hands to Patrick’s shoulders. “You’re shivering.” 

“I—oh.” 

Art starts rubbing his hands over Patrick’s arms, as if trying to warm him, but it’s useless still in the storm. 

“C’mon, let’s just go. The car should be waiting just around the corner,” Art says, already pulling out his phone to text their driver, curling his body to protect it from the rain, as if it isn’t already soaked.

“What about Tashi?” 

“She told me to take you back to the hotel when I came to find you. She’ll meet us there.” 

“But—” he doesn’t love the idea of Tashi staying alone in a room with his family, to be honest.

“It’s okay.” Art reassures, before waving down the SUV. “She wanted to stay, just so there are no surprises.”

“Coach Tashi?” 

“Three steps ahead,” Art confirms with a nod, opening the door and gesturing for Patrick to get in. 

They settle in the backseat, and Patrick at least has the mental capacity to cringe at sitting soaking wet on the leather. 

With each mile put between them and the funeral, Patrick feels that sense of numbness start to creep along his edges once again. It’s not quite as all-encompassing as it was this morning, but a haze still settles around him in the stillness of the car. 

He looks over to Art, where he sits, watching him. 

“Hey, Art?” He asks, hesitant. Slightly blunted.

“Yeah?”

“Do you believe in God?”

His brows furrow at the question, no doubt surprised. Somehow, it’s never something that they’ve discussed, even though Art clearly grew up in a religious household. Even during the summers when they were forced to go to Mass together every weekend, they never actually had any sort of philosophical conversations about it. 

It’s clear that he really takes the time to consider the question, his face crinkled in contemplation as he answers simply, “No. I don’t.” A beat, then: “Do you?”

Turning to stare out the window, he lets out a breath, sagging his shoulders.

“I don’t know… I don’t think so.” 

The rest of the ride is silent. 

Even with the heat blasting through the vents, Patrick still shivers the entire drive, trying to ignore the twenty-year old sense of deja vu seeping through his wet clothes. 

* * * 

Back at the hotel, Art leads them to their ensuite bathroom, and gestures for Patrick to sit along the edge of the large bathtub. Another faint echo of a memory he’d rather forget, swimming up to the surface now that everything is flooding back. 

Art wordlessly turns the faucet for the bath, humming under his breath as he checks the temperature with his fingers. Apparently satisfied, he starts shedding his wet clothes, dropping them heavily onto the tile floor. 

Down to just his pants, Art gives him a pointed look, a hint of humor twinkling in his eye that feels oddly out of place given everything. 

“Are you planning on keeping your clothes on, or what?” 

As if he’s only putting the pieces together, he looks back at the bathtub, nearly half-full with bubbles obscuring the bottom. Huh . He never even noticed Art adding bubbles. Maybe he is still in a bit of a trance, with how slowly his brain seems to be working.

“What?” He asks dumbly, before looking back to Art. “You want to take a bath?”

“Mhm,” he hums, stepping closer and resting his hands on Patrick’s damp shoulders, rubbing in a soothing up and down again, then pressing into the knots in his traps. “To warm you up. Help you relax.” 

Overwhelmed by the look in Art’s eyes, Patrick lets his head tip forward, until it’s resting against Art’s bare chest. One of Art’s hands comes up to comb through his hair, gently pulling apart the wind-tangled strands at the back of his head. He can’t help the half-breath, half satisfied moan that escapes at the feeling. 

“You hate baths,” he half-protests into Art’s skin, remembering numerous Art-style rants from their school days about how disgusting he finds the idea of sitting in his own dirty water. 

“I used to,” Art corrects. “Tashi has helped me see how nice they can be. It’s something I do when I’m stressed or upset now. It helps me clear my head.” 

“Huh.” 

“Besides, it’s not like we’re dirty,” Art says, moving away from Patrick to turn off the water, forcing his head back up. “C’mon, get undressed. Before the water gets cold.”

Art drops his pants, getting completely naked, then steps into the tub. Patrick’s head is nearly spinning, with how weird and not weird this all is. They’ve never bathed together, obviously, but Art is acting like this is a totally normal thing for them to do. Like Patrick is the weird one here.

And even while he’s still in his cold, wet clothes, he already feels like it’s working. Like he’s starting to warm from the inside, at the sight of Art waiting for him to get in the bath with him. 

A barely-there smile threatens to lift the corner of his mouth, for the first time all day.

“You think we can both fit?” He asks, starting on his jacket and button-up shirt. 

“We’ll make it work,” Art assures him, as he gets settled against the porcelain. 

And they do. 

Once Patrick gets his clothes off completely, he steps into the water—pleasantly warm, but almost painful against his cold feet—and after some slight adjustments he settles against Art’s chest, between his muscular legs, bent at the knees. The eucalyptus-scented bubbles provide a comforting blanket, obscuring their bodies below the water. 

He doesn’t know the last time he’s taken a bath. Honestly, he’s never even been the type to linger in the shower, just wanting to do the bare minimum in terms of hygiene then getting out. Seeing it as a necessary chore. But he has to admit that this is nice—letting the warm water soak into his skin, with Art wrapped around him. 

It also strikes him that this is the first time since they’ve started everything that he and Art are naked together without sex being the end goal. Or without Tashi there as a sort of buffer between them. God knows Patrick isn’t in any sort of mood for that , and neither of them are hard, but still—it’s just so… nice . 

It’s the type of casual intimacy he’s craved his entire life, and the warmth of it spreads through his veins like honey. It’s so tender it almost breaks his heart a little.

The instant one of Art’s gentle hands comes up and starts carding through his hair again, it’s game over. As if all the puppet strings holding him up have been snapped, he goes completely boneless, letting go of what feels like all of the tension that has built up this whole week. 

His mind goes blissfully blank—all he can focus on is the warm water surrounding him, Art’s body against his, and the soothing fingers scratching against his scalp. Any thoughts of his family, or the funeral, or the past in general vacate his mind. 

Nothing else exists, except for this moment.

“This s’nice,” he slurs, eyes falling shut. 

After a while, he feels Art’s chest rise and fall with quiet laughter, which brings Patrick back into foggy awareness. 

“Mmm,” he hums sleepily. “What’s s’funny?”

“You fell asleep.” Patrick can hear Art’s fond smile through his words.

“Sorry,” he huffs an amused breath through his nose, lolling his head on Art’s chest. He’s still messaging his fingers through Patrick’s hair, scratching behind his ears, and it just feels so good. “How long?”

“Like five minutes, you’re fine.” Pressing a light kiss to Patrick’s temple, he continues, “It’s funny that you still fall asleep when I play with your hair. I always thought it was so… I dunno, cute when we were kids. Even with your snoring,” he tags on, voice light with a teasing lilt. 

“I don’t snore,” he huffs out. Then: “You thought I was cute?”

Art’s hand comes down to playfully pinch at his nose, as he replies, “You do,” before returning to his head. “And I did. I do.”

A pleased hum builds up in his chest, pulling his lips into the faintest smile. He must look extra pathetic right now if Art is willing to let him get away with blatantly fishing for compliments. 

“Well shit—you got a crush on me, or something?” 

“Something like that,” Art confirms, bringing his other hand up as well. 

“Just feels so good,” he mumbles, leaning into Art’s gentle touch. He forces the words past the tightness rapidly collecting in his throat, at the thought that maybe those moments that Patrick held onto so dearly meant just as much to Art, too.

Art’s fingers migrate from his hair down to his chest, where he traces mindless patterns along his sternum and collarbones, across his shoulders and down his arms. 

The silence is so comfortable between them—which is something Patrick took for granted when they were younger for sure. It’s just that he has spent so much time alone that he’s nearly forgotten what it’s like to exist with someone else like this. Despite the acquaintances or even the occasional fling, he was never able to replicate the level of comfort he always felt with Art. Like there is nothing else in the world besides the two of them. He can let go of everything else weighing him down, as if none of it exists in the bubble that has formed around the bathroom. 

Just as he’s about to doze again, Art hesitantly asks, “Patrick?”

He hums in response.

“Are… are you okay?”

Fighting the instinct to tense up, he forces himself to stay relaxed against Art’s chest, though he can’t help the slight hitch in his breath. From the tone of his voice Patrick can tell that Art isn’t just asking about today, or yesterday, or even this week. 

He’s asking an all encompassing are you okay, as if Patrick has any fucking idea how to answer that question. 

If he could take a summation of every single lived experience he’s faced, is he truly able to say that he’s okay? 

And what does it mean that his first instinct isn’t yes ?

It’s too big a question and it hits too close to everything Patrick has been running from, and he feels like he’s staring down the barrel of a gun in the face of it. 

And yet… he always seems to end up here anyway. The pendulum always swings right back around in the end. And he’s just so tired of letting the pressure build up, tired of shoving things down and running from them. 

When he was in the storm his walls came down, even if just for a single moment of blinding clarity. And right now, he’s warm and safe and locked in Art’s embrace and he thinks that maybe he could be ready to confront something . 

Be honest for once. 

So he doesn’t lie, doesn’t put on a face. Instead, he lets out a heavy breath, and tells Art honestly, “I don’t know.”

Art’s hand stills on his chest, only restarting when Patrick lets out an involuntary displeased sound. Even on the precipice of whatever this is, Patrick doesn’t want to lose this yet. He doesn’t want his demons sneaking in, settling themselves between him and Art right in this nice moment. He knows that it’s coming, that it’s inevitable, but yet. He just wants a few more minutes of peace, before facing everything . He’s selfish—not ready to give this sweetness up yet.

So instead, he cranes his neck so that he can catch Art’s eye, needing to see his favorite shade of blue. 

“Will you just talk for a bit? Tell me something.”

Art cups his jaw, keeping their eyes locked, searching his face as if he can read all his secrets, written plainly on his skin.

“Like what?”

“Something good,” he decides, pressing a kiss to the long column of Art’s neck before turning back around and settling against him again. He just wants to keep feeling close to him, like he’s catching up on all the time lost. “Tell me about a time you were really happy. When we were apart.”

“That’s easy,” he starts, voice taking on a soft quality, like his mind is already somewhere else. “The happiest day of my life, no competition, was the day Lily was born.”

“Yeah? Tell me about it?”

“Oh god,” he laughs, a little self-deprecating. “I was such a mess. Tashi handled labor like a champ, of course, while I was on the verge of a full-blown freak-out the whole time.” A sliver of bittersweet sadness wedges into his chest, because Patrick can picture it so clearly , and it hurts knowing that he wasn’t around for such an important moment in Art’s life. 

“I know I was driving Tashi crazy, but I couldn’t help it,” he continues. “But then I saw her for the first time, and it was like nothing in the world mattered besides her. She was so perfect , Patrick, oh my god—I didn’t know it was possible to feel so happy.”

Patrick lifts his hand to find one of Art’s, where it’s still tracing soothing patterns over his chest, and coils their fingers together, squeezing tight. 

“For the first time in my life, everything felt like it made sense. Lily brought part of me back to life, I think. I had never loved anything like I loved her. And Tashi, because she gave her to me.” 

Art gives Patrick’s hand a squeeze, before continuing, voice a little lower. 

“I, uh, I actually thought about you a lot, right when Lily was born,” he says, catching Patrick by surprise. “When we were younger, I always had this idea of us being uncles to each other’s kids, or something, and it was really hard for me to deal with us not being that, y’know? I wanted you to meet her so badly, but I was still so mad at you for everything. 

“But still—I thought about you every day, Patrick. While holding Lily, looking at Tashi, everytime I played… Fuck —I don’t think a single day passed where I didn’t miss you like a limb.”

It takes everything in him to not cry tears of relief, hearing that he wasn’t the only one mourning their relationship like a death. That it wasn’t one-sided all this time. Obviously he knows it wasn’t, but to hear it so plainly…

Though part of him sort of wants to bash Art’s head in for not calling him, even when he felt this way.

And Patrick knew , back in Atlanta, that Tashi was just aiming to hurt him— we don’t even think about you —throwing her own pain and insecurities and guilt in his face. But hearing it from Art’s mouth is like the final piece of a puzzle slipping into place, proving to him that it wasn’t all in his head, that he wasn’t delusional for never letting go. 

Swallowing back the bittersweet lump in his throat, he forces out a sad laugh, trying to bring the mood up again, not wanting to dwell on the endless what if’s . 

“God, it’s still so fucking weird to me that you’re a dad. Like—you have a fucking kid.”

“Trust me, man, it’s been six years and it’s still weird to me too.” 

“What’s it like?”

He can feel Art’s chest rise and fall with a deep breath, the way it puffs past Patrick’s ear as he sighs out, “Fucking terrifying.”

Patrick can’t help the inquisitive sound that escapes his lips at that, not expecting it. 

“I mean it’s fucking wonderful, and rewarding, and Lily is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but fuck, man. It is so scary knowing that I’m responsible for her wellbeing. And then there’s the fear that something I do could screw her up… and I have literally no idea what I’m doing. I mean, I don’t even remember my own parents, so—”

“Art, c’mon,” he interrupts. “I’ve only been around you for a few weeks but even I can tell that you’re a great fucking dad. And Lily seems like a great kid. Her only problem is that she doesn’t like me,” he half-teases. He’s been joking since New Rochelle that Lily doesn’t like him, which is sort of true but mostly not. 

But everything else is all undoubtedly true. Even with Art and Tashi being so busy, Lily seems incredibly well-loved and well-adjusted, and it’s so plainly obvious that even he can see it, as essentially an outside observer. 

Art lets out an amused scoff, like he does every time Patrick complains that Lily hasn’t warmed up to him yet. “She likes you, Patrick. She’s just shy. She’s like that with all the new people that join the team, I promise.” 

“Yeah, well. Holding her parents hostage for a week probably isn’t doing me any favors.”

“She’ll be okay. And hey, she even asked about you on FaceTime two nights ago,” Art shares, poking his free hand into his ribs lightly. 

“She did?” He asks, unable to bite back his pleased smile. He wasn’t expecting that .

“Mhm. She’s curious about you. Just give it time. Plus—” he adds, poking Patrick again, “—it’s practically written in her DNA to be obsessed with you.” 

The warm flutter in his chest actually manages to push a short burst of laughter out of him. 

“She actually reminds me of you when we first met. How shy you were in the beginning.”

Art chuckles against his ear, before pressing another sweet kiss to his temple. Patrick loves this version of him— Dad Art —even though he’s barely scratched the surface. He just knows that Art is a good dad, because how could he not be? He’s so fucking caring and sensitive, but he’s also so protective and the idea of him worrying about screwing Lily up somehow is bringing up a lot of feelings, so much so that he suddenly has to blink back the threat of tears burning at his eyes.

“Tell me more about Lily. What’s she like?” He asks, just to hear Art talk about her, and because he’s not sure he trusts his voice to say much more.

“She’s just the best, Patrick, I swear—”

Patrick is happy to see that this hasn’t changed about Art—that he can talk and talk and talk about something if given the space, and Patrick is more than happy to let him yap about his daughter. Especially since he can hear the complete adoration seeping through his words. He mindlessly plays with Art’s fingers, while he listens to him rave about how smart Lily is, and how funny she is, and how she hates tennis—much to Tashi’s dismay—but loves dance class, and how her favorite color changes every week. 

It’s just so clear that Art loves her, that he would go to the ends of the Earth for her. And Patrick eats it up—he’s always loved listening to anything Art has to say. 

Plus, he’s trying to squirrel all this information about Lily away, because she’s a mix of his two favorite people and he really does want her to like him. He wants to know her, and maybe eventually love her, because he knows that she’s a part of his life now, no matter how weird it is to him that she actually exists. 

Since he’s been back in Art and Tashi’s lives, everything has been so overshadowed by the excitement of being together again, then preparing for the US Open, then dealing with Patrick’s shit… they haven’t gotten to see the day-to-day of each other’s lives. Not really, anyway. And Patrick has always been desperate to know everything about Art, so he listens and takes it all in, because this is a huge fucking part of him, and it’s something he’s missed over the years. 

The downside, one that he did not consider, is that hearing how good of a dad Art is brings him back to lamenting just how awful his own father was. The contrast is stark , laid out like this. In a twisted way, it loosens that mass of complex feelings that has tangled in his chest all week, bringing everything up to the surface in a way it couldn’t this morning, when he was numb and barely able to function. 

Not only is he seeing what a father’s love should be, reminding him of something he’s never fucking had, but he’s also seeing the life that he lost for years . One with Art and maybe Tashi and all the things they could have had together, if they hadn’t all been so fucking stupid . 

It’s two shots to the heart, in rapid succession.

He doesn’t realize that he’s crying until Art wraps his arms fully around him, pulling him even tighter to his chest.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” Art coos in his ear.

Bringing his hands up to hide his face, Patrick tries to pull himself together. He doesn’t even know what exactly the final straw was that brought this on, but he doesn’t think it’ll stop now that it’s started. 

“I—I don’t,” he sniffs, losing control with each passing breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing , okay?”

Patrick isn’t quite sure he believes that, but it’s not worth fighting about. Art holds him tight while he slowly pulls himself together, long enough that the water turns lukewarm and the bubbles disappear completely. 

“You’re just a really good dad,” he’s eventually able to say, voice thick and raspy with emotion. 

He just wants Art to know, so he can never doubt himself. 

Art makes a sad little noise in the back of his throat, before placing a long kiss against the top of his head. Patrick knows that Art can put the pieces together, can find meaning in what he leaves unsaid. 

A few more minutes pass in silence, when Patrick hears the distant sound of footsteps outside the bathroom. They’re still curled together, crammed in the bathtub when Tashi finds them, a sad softness in her eyes. 

She looks completely put together, not a single hair out of place. Figures that she’d still manage to look good even in a fucking hurricane. 

“How are you doing?” She asks, as she leans to sit on the edge of the tub. 

All Patrick can manage is a tight, closed-lip smile, before biting his bottom lip and looking away, hoping she can’t see the proof of his tears on his face. 

Tashi reaches out a gentle hand, and runs a soft pass through his curls, before doing the same to Art. 

She gives him one last lingering glance, before standing, wordlessly making her way to the closet. When she emerges a moment later, she’s in a pair of leggings and a gray quarter zip, feet bare against the tile. 

“Dry off,” she lightly orders them both. “I’ll make some coffee.”

This is it , Patrick tells himself, as he towels off. He’s filled with a whole lot of dread and shame and fear, but he’s finally feeling the heavy weight of carrying everything on his own. He can’t keep doing this—he sees that now. He’s finally at the edge of a cliff, and he knows now the only way down is to jump and hope that Art and Tashi mean it when they say they’re on his side.

Time to face this. 

* * *

Dry and dressed in warm, cozy clothes, Patrick and Art meet Tashi in the living room, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee permeates the air. Filling him with a warm sense of calming comfort, it’s a contrast against the storms raging outside and in his fucking head. He cradles the mug tight in his hands, absorbing the heat through his palms.

He settles in the middle of the plush couch, with Art and Tashi flanked on either side of him, each curled against the armrest and facing each other. He appreciates that they’re giving him space, while still being close enough to reach out and touch. 

The same itchy, nervous feeling that has persisted all week starts prickling at him again, so much so that he can’t help but tap his fingers against the smooth ceramic mug, rhythm matching his frantic pulse. Even though he’s resolved himself to doing this, he can’t quite swallow back the sense of unease. He’s never actually talked about… anything before last night. 

He doesn’t know where to start. 

Once he brings this to light, there’s no taking it back. He can’t bury something once it’s become real, and it’s so daunting but fuck —he knows that choking it down hasn’t done him any good. 

He doesn’t want to exist as a ticking time bomb anymore. 

“You didn’t miss much,” Tashi offers up, unprompted. “I mean, not that you would’ve missed anything anyway, but…  yeah. There were only a few more quick bullshit speeches left, then just lots of bullshit mingling.” 

Already, his memories of the actual funeral service this morning are fuzzy at best. A byproduct of his near-dissociative state. He hardly remembers leaving at all, as if his body decided to remove him from the entire thing without consulting his brain. 

“I, um. I feel bad that we— I —” she corrects, with downturned lips and eyes cast on her own mug, “—pressured you into going today, Patrick. Obviously I heard what you said yesterday but I don’t think it really clicked until today just how… I don’t even know, fucked up everything is?”

Okay, so… yeah. 

We’re really doing this right now. 

“But hearing the way people talked about your dad…” she finally trails off, a hard-almost irritated quality coloring her voice. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, knowing exactly what she’s leaving unsaid. 

Forcing himself to sit up against the couch, he takes a large gulp of his coffee. Just for something to do with his hands, his mouth, that isn’t spilling all his secrets or begging them not to see him differently once they know just how fucked it really is. 

And on top of it all, hearing Tashi apologize to him again… it’s still so foreign, and it doesn’t feel right. 

With a wince—at the hot liquid burning his mouth and the words collecting on his tongue—he replies, “But Tash, you didn’t force me to do anything, okay? Yeah, maybe you pushed me a little, but I’m the one who agreed. And, honestly… I think maybe you and Art were right. In some fucked up way, I kinda feel like I’m getting… closure?” 

If only in the sense that he’s finally allowing himself to see how much his father—his family —has wronged him. He’s nowhere near ready to forgive and forget, and honestly, he doubts he ever will be, but being able to accept what happened to him seems like a good place to start unpacking everything so he can actually move on . 

Two sets of eyes rest on him, and the heavy weight of it makes him feel fidgety. He spins his mug around in his hands, before leaning forward to place it on the coffee table. He settles with his legs crossed under him, scrunching the fabric of his sweatpants in his fingers together while he works up to saying what he needs to. 

“I, um. I don’t—” he stammers, cutting himself off with a frustrated growl. His hands come up to rub at his eyes, before running through his still-damp hair. “Fuck.”

“Tell us, Patrick,” Tashi gently urges, obviously picking up on his internal battle. “Tell us what’s weighing on you.”

She’s coaching him. He could almost laugh.

His brain is moving at a million miles a minute, tripping over how exactly to go about this. Does he start from the first time his father hit him, or the first time with the belt? Or even earlier, with both of his parents passivity toward him, practically from the day he was born? 

How much do the details really even matter? 

How much of himself can he handle sharing, without feeling completely flayed open and exposed to the bone?

There’s so much that he wants to say and never wants to speak aloud, and yet the first words to force their way out his mouth shock even him.

“The last time I saw my dad he almost killed me.” 

It hangs heavy in the space between them, completely silent. Not even the sound of three beating hearts carry through the dead-quiet of the room. 

Keeping his gaze purposefully forward, landing on the mug on the coffee table, he does not look at Art or Tashi. He fears that if he sees whatever expressions are on their faces he’ll want to backpedal, to try to somehow force the words back into his mouth. 

But instead, he nods to himself. A reassurance. Four years later, and he still hasn’t ever truly acknowledged what happened. He has never let it actually exist as a truth in his mind, let alone out in the open.

“He almost killed me,” he repeats, quietly. Resigned. Mostly to himself. 

“... What? ” 

He’s not sure why he’s surprised, but he is—when Art is the one hissing through clenched teeth, his rage barely contained within a single word. Like a conditioned response to hearing Art upset, his eyes shoot to him, and the ice-cold anger on his face makes tendrils of dread climb up Patrick’s spine. 

Maybe this was a bad idea. 

Maybe his secrets are better left locked away, rotting him slowly from the inside so he doesn’t spread his poison to anyone else. 

He’s about to start backtracking, negating everything, when Tashi scoots closer to him, setting her own mug to the side. She holds her hand palm up on her knee just next to his. A subtle offering, so as not to spook him any further.

“It’s okay,” she says, to both him and Art. “I mean, it’s not , but…” she shakes her head, a nervous, uncertain move. “Tell us what happened. Please.” 

He takes a deep, shaky breath in through his nose, before forcing it out through pursed lips. He takes Tashi’s hand, a small anchor. Proof that he isn’t alone anymore. 

“It was in 2015. My parents were throwing this fundraiser-party-thing for their anniversary, and they basically forced me to go,” he starts, voice going distant. Gripping onto Tashi’s hand, he tries to stay grounded in this moment, but now that he’s opening this memory it’s all flooding back, threatening to pull him down with the undertow. 

“My dad’s seat was almost up again, and my mom was running for District Attorney, so it was super uppity and pretentious. I mean, today you saw what kind of company my parents keep, so you can imagine. But for the whole thing being about them, they sure as hell had no problems ragging on me all night. And I had actually been doing pretty well that season, so it got to me, y’know? It shouldn’t have, because it’s the same shit they always pulled—but nothing I did was ever good enough for them. And then there was this shit with my sister—” he cuts himself off with a bitter, humorless laugh. The Maddie stuff can wait. 

“So my parents were being assholes, and my sister was awful, and it was like everyone there was actively trying to make me feel like shit, and… and my dad gave this super homophobic speech that felt, like, targeted —” takes another breath, feeling himself start to spiral. He drops his head in the hand not holding Tashi’s, elbow resting against his thigh. “And there was this waiter working the party…”

Tashi’s hand twitches against his, squeezing tighter just for a second, as if she can see where this is going. 

“He was cute, and flirting with me, and I was stupid and upset, and… and my dad caught us together.”

He can still see it, perfectly clear as if it’s happening right in front of him—the blank, silent rage on his father’s face. The revulsion, the disgust radiating off of him. The way his stoic, almost resigned pacing shifted to red-hot anger and violent hatred. When he starts to feel phantom hands around his throat, he forces his eyes up to Art’s. Needing to see him more than he needs the air in his lungs. 

More proof that he’s not alone. 

Art’s eyes are shiny, a devastating mix of incredulous anger and sadness that makes Patrick’s chest seize up. He chances a glance at Tashi, but she’s sporting the exact same look. Fuck . How the fuck is he supposed to do this?

Somehow, he continues.

“He cut me off. Disowned me. Said that he couldn’t have a faggot for a son, or something like that. Said if he ever saw me again he’d fucking kill me.” 

He shuts his eyes against the memory, but it does nothing to stop it from replaying in his head. 

He’s dead he’s dead he’s fucking dead.  

“Ah,” he forces out, voice wavering as he drops his head into his hand again. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

He feels Tashi’s free hand rub at the nape of his neck, and he leans into the touch before meeting her eyes again. The nod she gives him is sad and hesitant, but encouraging. 

“It’s okay,” she whispers again, even though it’s anything but. Art is holding himself rigid, halfway to chewing his lip to a bloody pulp, but at Patrick’s seeking gaze he gives a small, barely-perceptible nod as well. 

“The details are a little fuzzy, but… um—he basically beat the shit out of me,” he rushes out, around a grimace. “I just remember laying there and thinking that I was literally going to die.” 

He forces himself to take a deep, intentional breath in, holding the air in his lungs until it goes stale. It does nothing to slow his pounding heart, but it does serve to remind him that he can breathe, that he’s okay and safe . 

“Somehow I got myself to the hospital, but I passed out before I could get out of the car. Woke up in the ICU with broken ribs and a collapsed lung, and a few other things. Spent five fucking days there.” 

Even in his own ears he can hear how detached he says it all, as if he’s recounting something that happened to a friend, rather than himself. His eyes had slipped closed again without him noticing. 

“You were out for most of the 2016 season,” Tashi muses, as if she’s putting the pieces together. “This is why?”

No longer trusting his vocal chords, he nods. He doesn’t even have it in him to be happy about her admitting to keeping up with his matches. 

“ Jesus fucking Christ, Patrick,” Art grits out. But all Patrick hears is anger, and his twisted walk down memory lane has his wires crossed, and all at once he’s convinced that Art is mad at him. His stomach sinks to his feet, pulse skyrocketing. He’s completely overcome with an inexplicable need to justify everything, somehow. 

“I—I know it’s a lot. But I was stupid and reckless and I should have known better. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please—I’m sorry, I—” 

“Hey, no. No, no, no, no—” Art hastily replies, cutting him off while scooting closer on the couch. Bending his neck to get into Patrick’s line of sight, he stresses, “I’m not mad at you . I’m… fucking pissed, yeah, but not at you. Never at you. Not for this.” He reaches out a sure hand, palming Patrick’s jaw and locking their gazes together. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Instinctively, he tries to recoil at the words. At the way it makes him feel like a victim, which, yeah, he’s maybe starting to see that he is one, but old habits die hard and repression has become his method of survival for years . 

He swallows back the urge to deny it, but Art has always been able to see right through him.

The hand along his jaw holds him in place, keeping Patrick’s eyes on Art. “I’m serious, Patrick. It doesn’t matter what you did—” a flash of righteous anger ignites in Art’s eyes “—you would never deserve something like that. Jesus. Five? Five fucking days in the ICU?” 

Art releases his hold on Patrick’s face, then runs the same hand over his own mouth. It’s shaking. 

“Oh god,” he moans. The blood visibly drains from his face, turning him a sickly pale color as everything appears to sink in. “You could have fucking died . I mean, you practically said it yourself! You thought you were going to. And I had no fucking idea. I— we —almost lost you and didn’t even fucking know .” 

Shit. Now Art is spiraling, and Patrick would normally try to bring him back on track but he doesn’t know how , and he’s barely hanging on himself because all he can think about is the heavy weight on his chest and the empty chair at his bedside and is there anyone else you want to call?

“Art, baby, you’re not helping,” Tashi says, leaning closer to both of them. Taking control of the rapidly unraveling situation. “But he’s right, Patrick. You didn’t do anything wrong, and your father is a fucking asshole. Worse than that, actually.”

Patrick knows she’s looking at him, and that she wants him to look back at her, but he’s starting to feel like she’s waiting to examine him under a microscope. It’s heady, the depth of her always-calculating stare. And he doesn’t want her to see how wrapped up in Art’s words he still is, how painfully true it all is. 

“What?” She asks, soft but pointed.

She sees it. Of course she does. 

“Nothing,” he rushes out, voice thick and defensive. 

He doesn’t want to make them feel bad, or guilty. It’s not going to do any of them any good. 

“Patrick, just say it. Whatever it is.” An encouraging squeeze of his hand. 

“Fuck, okay.” Out of everything he has shared today, somehow these are the hardest words for his mouth to form. “It’s just that—apparently, when I was in the hospital… the doctors, or whatever, tried to, uh, call the emergency contact in their system.” 

From their perplexed expressions—Tashi’s still searching and Art’s still watery and pale—he can tell it doesn’t click. He really, really doesn’t want to spell this out. 

“I guess I never updated it, from when I first went pro,” he offers, eyes flickering over to Art almost-guiltily. But he sees it when the horror flashes on his face. Patrick’s stomach churns. 

“Fuck , ” Art groans, dropping his head fully in his hands. “ Fuck! ”

When Art gave Patrick his new number after the challenger, he sheepishly explained why he had to change it. That it had somehow gotten leaked on some tennis subreddit—a little after Atlanta, actually. It made sense, of course it did, and Patrick didn’t really have it in him to be mad about it, or dwell on it. 

Not when he was so focused on actually being in speaking distance of Art, anyway. 

“This is all my fault,” Art moans miserably, muffled into his hands. “If… if I hadn’t—then you wouldn’t—and maybe none of this would have happened, or I would have been there, and—”

“Hey, no. Stop,” Patrick says.

At the same time Tashi firmly interrupts, “Art, look at me.” When he does, begrudgingly, she waves her finger in the air wildly. Commandingly. “We’re not doing this . Pointing fingers, or whatever it is that you’re doing, blaming yourself.”

It’s like the tension in the air starts tightening again, making his pulse pick up speed. It makes his voice come out a little curt—frustrated, even—when he tries again.

“That’s not… Look. That’s not why I brought it up. I don’t blame you,” he flounders a bit, unable to articulate exactly what he wants to say. “I didn’t say that to make you feel bad. It’s just, I dunno, another shitty detail about this shitty situation, and I guess I felt like you should know.” 

He almost leaves it there, but then he figures, what the hell? If we’re going for honestly, let’s be fucking honest . 

“But I’d be lying if I didn’t think about that. About me dying in this fucking town, and you guys never knowing. Or fuck, not caring .”

Art’s face twists up, jagged and wrecked. Patrick can’t look at him. Tashi’s has gone stoic. Not closed-off, but intentionally blank. 

It isn't any easier to look at. 

“Patrick,” Tashi starts, voice quiet and hesitant in the silence that hangs between them. As if she’s afraid to prod any further. “Why didn’t you call me ?”

He’s not sure why he’s still surprised, every time she manages to catch him off-guard. He should expect this of her by now. 

“You want the truth?” Her lip twitches downward, just a touch. But she nods. “I didn’t think you’d answer.” 

Simple as that. 

And she knows it’s true. He can see it on her face. In her eyes. 

“I would’ve,” she says anyway. It’s a nice thought, but Patrick sees it for the pretty lie it is—knowing she does too. “And I would’ve come,” she adds. 

Maybe she actually believes it. 

Or maybe… It's not a lie. Maybe it’s a promise. 

Because even given twelve twelve years of misunderstandings, and stubbornness, and even downright toxicity—he knows that at each of their cores that they all missed this. Needed this. That for whatever fucking reason, none of them work right without the other two. So he knows that he’s not going anywhere, and neither are they. 

Art, Tashi, and Patrick—they’re incomplete without each other. Like the three stars that make up Orion’s belt. Without all three, they’d be unrecognizable. Just nameless blobs in the night sky, unable to live up to their full potential, show the full picture. 

So whatever it is—a promise, a platitude, somewhere in the middle—he chooses to believe it. 

“I know you would’ve,” he whispers. “Both of you.” 

A sneaky tear slips down his cheek, and he uses the hand not still clutching Tashi’s to wipe it away. He sniffles, gives a clear of his throat, remembering what exactly brought them here in the first place.

“So yeah, I hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone in my family since then. And after this clusterfuck I don’t think I ever will again.”

“Oh no, you’re definitely not,” Tashi deadpans, while Art swipes at his own damp eyes and huffs out a fuck that. 

He feels wrung out. Exhausted and overworked, like he just finished a marathon. And yet, he has freed the memory he’s kept captive for years, has given life to the ignored feelings that have been festering for even longer, and it… didn’t kill him. It’s a tiny start, a drop in the bucket, really, but a step in the right direction nonetheless.

Before he can help it, more spews out. Uncontained and unfiltered, his words seek the freedom of fresh air, now that he’s opened the seal. 

“I’ve just spent my entire life feeling fucking crazy , y’know? Hearing everyone talk about how great my parents are, and watching them with my sister. I spent years trying to figure them out—what they wanted from me, how I could make them like me. Or, fuck, just tolerate me. But I could never do anything right,” he rants, pushing past the quiver in his throat. “I mean, they sent me away when I was twelve years-old, for fuck’s sake. Even if it ended up being the best thing that ever fucking happened to me, but still. They couldn’t stand me that much?”

He’ll never be able to regret pushing his parents to the point of sending him to boarding school, but the betrayal of it never stopped stinging. Though, he supposes it’s a small transgression on a long list of betrayals against him. 

“I know my father was a bad person. Obviously, I know that. But hearing everyone on the news and in articles and at parties my entire fucking life say the opposite—it’s a lot. It made me feel like there was something wrong with me, for not seeing the same person that everyone else did. It shouldn’t be so confusing but it is .”

“It is a lot, Pat,” Art replies, having pulled himself together. He’s looking at Patrick fiercely, full of conviction in a way that has him feeling sixteen years-old again. “It’s so fucking much, and you didn’t deserve to feel that way, as a kid or now. What your family did to you is fucked . But you need to know that we love you so much, and we want to help you figure it out.”

Can Art hear the way his heart shatters, splintering into a million tiny pieces in his fucking chest? 

Art lifts his leg onto the couch, angling his body to face Patrick head-on. Both hands reach out and grip Patrick’s face again, his thumbs gently sweeping along his cheeks and collecting the moisture falling once again. 

“Are you listening?” He asks, his blazing eyes flicking between both of Patrick’s own. “Because I need you to hear this. We want you here. Exactly as you are. Not who you think we want you to be—but exactly who you are. Patrick fucking Zweig. ” His hands grip a little tighter, as if he’s afraid that Patrick will literally slip through his fingertips. “And I know it’s not this fucking simple, but I don’t ever want you to doubt how much we care about you because of how awful your parents were, okay? And I know we’ve done our own share of things that have hurt you too, and I want you to know how sorry I am for that. Truly, Patrick. I’m sorry.” 

It becomes harder to breathe. The air is thick with the heavy weight of Art’s insistence, the look of devotion on his face. With all of his heart, he wants to believe it. And with the way he’s practically cut open on a steel table, his insides out on display and easy to penetrate, he does . 

He lets himself be loved, and it’s so fucking hard but so fucking easy all at once. 

“I’m sorry too,” he blubbers, because it feels like something he should say. A tiny, pitiful whimper creaks out of his throat, and his eyes flit down to Art’s lips. He just needs to feel close to him. “Will you just—?” he asks, hoping Art can put the pieces together. 

Which, he does. They’ve always been so good at reading each other. 

Art presses the most gentle—almost painfully sweet—kiss to his lips. Patrick can’t help but let out a relieved sigh, which Art dutifully swallows up. It’s salty from his tears, and a little too wet, but Art’s lips on his and his fingers cradling his cheeks have never felt more perfect. 

A few heartbeats pass before Tashi’s free hand starts tickling at the back of his neck, her nails barely tracing over the sensitive skin there. Art pulls back, their lips separating with a little smack, and Patrick turns to Tashi. 

Her kiss is more sure, but no less sweet. Just a chaste peck, but it leaves no room to mistake what she says with it. 

“For the record, I’m sorry too,” she whispers into the space between them. “And what Art said is true. We want you, Patrick. Every bit of you, no matter how much you drive me crazy, or how much we fight. I want you, okay?”

With a sniffle, he nods. 

His entire life, all he’s wanted is to belong . To experience that elusive thing called unconditional love. And to be honest, he almost stopped believing such a thing could be real. At least for him. He spent years believing that he was irrevocably broken. That something in his DNA rendered him unlovable, unable to be kept for long. 

To have everything he’s yearned for offered up to him like this, it makes him dizzy. Like he’s unable to see straight, around the possibilities of the future opening up around him. 

And he knows there’s still so much he needs to work through, that there’s years and years of shit that has piled up, but for now…

For now, he sinks into the feeling of being chosen. Of being wanted. 

Of being loved .

Chapter Text

October 9, 2020 – Los Angeles, California

An Epilogue 

“Tilt your head back.”

“M’kay.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Got it.”

“Stop blinking!”

“I’m not! My eyes are closed ,” he sasses.

“Uncle Patrick!” Lily huffs, sounding so much like Tashi for a second that it nearly strikes the fear of God in him. He can feel her tiny little finger rubbing back and forth on his eyelid, narrowly missing poking his damn eye out. 

“Okay, okay, sorry Lils. But it tickles,” he chuckles, before sneak-attacking her with his wiggling fingers to her belly and under her arms. She squeals, her high pitched giggles filling the room as she tries and fails to escape from Patrick’s tickle-wrath. 

He and Lily have spent the entire afternoon together, while Art and Tashi have been buttering up donors at a huge fundraising gala for the Foundation. 

At the start of the year he had accompanied them to a much smaller event, but as it turns out, getting dressed in a suit to pander to rich fucks with deep pockets felt a little too… political? Close to home? 

Dare he say: triggering?

The night had started off well enough, but at some point the air around him had grown too thin, his necktie too tight. Patrick was barely able to escape the party unnoticed, struggling for breath and desperately pawing at his aching chest in the bathroom, his mind completely elsewhere from one moment to the next.

Even with a cause as important as funding athletics programs for underprivileged girls, he apparently couldn’t separate the nature of the event from all the fundraisers he had been forced to attend over the years.

None of them could have predicted how he would react to that sort of environment, but a spontaneous phone session with his therapist helped him unpack why the event made him feel so panicky .  

(Looking back, he knows why , obviously.)

When Art brought him home, his therapist helped him work through his still-complex mess of feelings, unpack the trauma —which is honestly still hard for him to grapple with, some days—and figure out a solution to prevent something like this from happening again. 

Along with picking away at the PTSD he definitely has from the abuse and neglect of his childhood, and the violent end with his father and the whirlwind that his death had unearthed, his therapist is also helping him deal with his lingering fear of not being good enough for Art and Tashi. Of them kicking him out and sending him back to living in his car, back to fucking for a hot meal and a warm bed. 

They haven’t given any indication that this could happen, but still. The fear of it tingles at the back of his neck like a pesky gnat, not leaving him alone no matter how much he swats at it. He’s mostly able to ignore it, but every so often the annoying buzz of it drives him to the desperate recesses of his mind. 

Not to be confused with his own repressive tendencies—that urge to run from and bury his problems that never fully goes away, no matter how much he knows he doesn’t want to go anywhere. Apparently he has something of an anxious-avoidant attachment style. Which, yeah, makes sense on all counts.  

He’s a work in progress. And it fucking sucks, but he’s doing his best to actually do the work and face his feelings head-on, instead of running from them, regardless of how difficult it is. 

It was Art’s idea—the therapy. Patrick resisted at first, but Art eventually wore him down. His therapist is a trauma specialist, and, much to Patrick’s initial dismay, she’s very, very good at her job. 

He’s been seeing her for around a year now, and it still scares him just how much she is able to see, how a few words from her can turn his entire worldview upside down. There have been more than a few sessions that have left Patrick feeling completely raw, poked and prodded and overexposed, that had him questioning everything. But as it turns out, in order to treat his wounds he had to scrape out the rotten flesh, take a scalpel to the layers of scar tissue to finally let the healthy tissue have a chance to scab over and heal. 

It’s a painful, tedious—borderline endless—debridement. Things got worse before they started to get better, and he knows he’s nowhere near… fixed? Better?

But even he can’t deny that he has been able to see the difference in how he processes everything now. 

Through it all, Art and Tashi have been endlessly supportive and continue to be. Even when Patrick lashes out, or falls a little too far into a spiral of doubts or insecurity. 

They’ve even joined him for a few sessions, when he needed help facilitating a conversation about how his childhood or the lonely years after Tashi’s accident still weigh on him. 

It isn’t perfect—not by any means—but they’re all trying . And for the most part, it works. It really, really works. 

For the first time in a long time, he can truthfully say that he’s happy . 

Patrick truly couldn’t ask for more.

So, with the help of his therapist he determined that the best way to avoid another triggering evening means that he gets to stay home and play babysitter tonight, rather than accompanying Art and Tashi to the gala. But to be honest, he definitely thinks he gets the better end of the deal—why would he want to put on a suit to mingle in a stuffy room, risking another panic attack, when he could spend quality time with his best girl?

When her squeals start to turn from joyful to overwhelmed, Patrick finally takes mercy on Lily and releases her from his tickle attack. Her giggles settle down, and he lets out an involuntary laugh, too. She had recently lost both of her front teeth, and he can’t help but crack up every time she flashes her goofy smile. 

“Uncle Patrick, that’s not fair!” She breathlessly protests, even though he knows she secretly loves being tickled. 

“What’s not fair?” A familiar voice calls from the doorway. 

Both he and Lily turn their heads toward the sound, and he can feel his smile grow at the sight of Art, leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his tux, lounging like he’s been there a while. 

He has such a fond look on his face—utter adoration, really—and it’s enough to make Patrick’s stomach flutter, his cheeks grow warm, like he just got busted doing something embarrassing. 

He must have come in during the tickle-attack. Patrick didn’t even notice, over the sound of Lily’s high-pitched laughter. 

“Hey,” Patrick grins. “You’re home early.”

“Daddy!” Lily shouts as she runs over to him, and he dutifully scoops her into his arms and rests her on his hip, even though she’s definitely getting to be too big for that sort of treatment.

“Hey, Princess,” he greets her, pressing a light kiss to her cheek before setting her back down, while Patrick watches with amusement. “Yeah, Tash had everything under control, so she cut me loose,” he answers Patrick with a casual shrug, before turning back to Lily. “Now, what’s not fair?” 

“Uncle Patrick was tickling me,” she pouts, flashing her puppy-dog look that reminds him so much of Art as a kid that it never fails to knock him sideways. 

And, much like Art, this kid knows how to wield that look to bend everyone around her to her every whim. 

It’s fucking devious, and Patrick is slightly obsessed with her. 

“Is that so?” Art asks, giving Patrick a teasingly disappointed look. 

“Hey, she started it!” 

Art mock-gasps, turning back to his daughter. “Lily-bug, is that true?”

“No!” She squeaks. “Uncle Patrick started it! He wanted me to give him a princess makeover, but he kept moving!”

“Uh-huh,” he nods, barely holding back a smirk as he glances at Patrick. “A princess makeover, huh? Guess that answers my next question.” 

Lily runs back over to Patrick, where he is still sitting on her bedroom floor, and wraps her arms around his neck. He sputters at the sudden weight of her pulling him down while she proudly asks Art, “Doesn’t he look pretty?”

Art can’t hold back the smile anymore, but he does manage to swallow back a laugh, even though Patrick can see it teasing at the corners of his eyes. Patrick doesn’t even want to know what he looks like, with Lily’s sparkly tiara on his head, her glittery gloss on his lips, and the half-finished pink eyeshadow that he apparently couldn’t stay still for. 

“So pretty,” Art affirms, his lips twisting up on the side in amusement. “What else did you guys do today?” 

Still practically hanging off Patrick’s shoulders, she breathlessly starts regaling Art with their day in that gaspy way that she does when she’s excited. It’s so fucking cute with her toothless lisp that he can hardly stand it. 

“Well,” she drawls, “Uncle Patrick painted my nails, and he let me paint his, too. Show him!” She demands, and Patrick obeys, lifting his sloppily painted hot pink nails for Art to admire. She did a terrible job—the skin of his nail beds are more pink than his actual nails —but he loves it. Besides, it’s not like he’s any good at painting nails either. 

Art steps closer, giving a perfect wow in response, while Lily continues. 

“Then we watched Frozen , and did a painting, and then we were gonna play princesses so I had to give Uncle Patrick a makeover!” 

“Of course,” Art nods. 

“Lils, our painting is probably dry by now. Why don’t you go get it so we can show your dad? I’ll time you.”

“Okay!” She agrees, finally unwinding herself from his neck. 

“Ready? One, two, three—go,” he counts her off, and she takes off down the hall in a flash. Even though she weighs all of fifty pounds, her tiny footsteps thunder in the hallway and down the stairs. 

After turning to watch her go, Art looks back to him. “I can’t believe she falls for that every time,” he chuckles, before coming to sit by Patrick on the floor. With Lily’s footsteps still audible downstairs, Art chances a quick peck to Patrick’s lips. “Hey,” he whispers against him, before pulling back, bringing an ungodly amount of Patrick’s glittery lipgloss with him. “Sounds like you had a good day.” 

“The best,” he confirms. He really does love spending time with Lily, and he knows that Art and Tashi love that they seem to be equally as attached to each other. The first time she called him Uncle Patrick he may have had to evacuate the room to hide his watery eyes, though he’d never admit it. 

“She didn’t give you any trouble?” Art checks.

“None,” he confirms. “Well—” he amends, with a wink, “—nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Do I even want to know?” Art sighs, with a subtle shake of his head. Softly running his fingers over Patrick’s painted nails, he says, “You’re really great with her, you know that?” 

Suddenly feeling fucking bashful , he bites his lip. “Yeah well, she’s a great fucking kid.” 

“I mean, yeah, she is,” Art says, voice going all syrupy and mushy. “But I mean it. You’re so sweet with her. It’s cute, how much she clearly adores you.” Art presses another barely-there kiss to his lips, and teases as he pulls away, “And pink is your color. You should really consider the princess look more often.”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans. 

Still, a pleased, only minimally-embarrassed smile starts to pull at his cheeks, brightening when Art nudges their shoulders together with a huffed out breath. 

“How was the party?” He asks, changing the subject and nudging Art right back. “You look fucking hot, by the way.” 

And fuck, does he. In his retirement, he has a noticeable lightness to him now, something that even Patrick could tell was missing for the past few years. Plus, he’s growing his hair out again, which has the wonderful side effect of making him look charmingly boyish. It somehow deepens his dimples and brings out the smile-lines around his eyes. 

It’s a good fucking look on him. He wears it well, and Patrick has no qualms with letting him know. Often.

“Shut up,” Art rolls his eyes. “It went really well, I think. Tashi was really getting in the zone. She had donors practically throwing money at her.”

“Damn, good for her.” 

“Mhm,” he proudly agrees, then cautiously says, “She’d never outright say it, but it has a lot to do with how well you played this year. People are finally taking her fucking seriously as a coach.”

Patrick swells with pride—both for himself and for Tashi—at the reminder. Turns out, people really pay attention when a washed-up nobody comes out of the woodwork and starts dominating the scene. He thinks they actually broke the Tennis Channel commentators’ brains when he made it to the semis at the French and US Opens this year. 

And yeah, Patrick played the actual games, but only a damn good coach could take someone from 271 to 52 in one fucking season. It’s practically unheard of, and it’s all because of Tashi. 

It’s about time that she gets her fucking flowers. 

“They should’ve been taking her seriously when she was your coach, but hey. I’m nothing if not happy to be of service,” he smirks. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Art relents, tone sarcastic but smile genuine. He suddenly perks up, like he just remembered something. “Hey, remind me what time Peggy’s flight gets in tomorrow? I want to make sure the car is ready to take you to the airport in time to get her.” 

“Right,” Patrick nods. He’d nearly forgotten himself, given his exciting day. He grabs his phone to double-check the flight info, then forwards it to Art. 

Since the funeral, he and Peggy have been talking very regularly. 

Every Sunday afternoon he calls her, without fail, and after months of prodding she finally agreed to let him fly her out to LA for a visit. They haven’t seen each other since he left Connecticut, and he’s been dying to actually spend some quality time with her again, now that they’ve reconnected. 

Besides, he knows she’s getting older and he wants to make the most of the time he has left with her.

Likewise, she’s been dying to meet Lily, and no doubt has plans to embarrass Patrick with all sorts of stories from his early childhood. 

He can’t fucking wait to see her. 

To show her that he’s finally getting a taste of that happiness she urged him to find. 

A few seconds later, Lily’s heavy steps—definitely slower now—start approaching again. When she rounds the corner back into her room, she’s huffing and puffing, with their painting clutched in her hands. 

“How fast was that?” She eagerly pants. 

“Forty-seven seconds,” Patrick arbitrarily throws out, but Lily seems pleased nonetheless. 

Art gives him a faux-disappointed look for the lie, before Lily steals his attention, showing off their masterpiece. 

It’s abstract. And covered in glitter, of course.

Patrick loses himself in watching them, just a touch. It still catches him off-guard, sometimes. That this is his life now. 

He hopes the warm and fuzzy feeling in his veins never goes away. 

“Daddy,” Lily says, tilting her head and squinting her eyes at him suspiciously. It’s like looking at a fucking clone of Tashi. 

“Yeah, baby?”

“Are you wearing my lip gloss, too?” 

A deep, uncontained laugh bursts from Patrick’s chest, and the dumbfounded look on Art’s face only fuels his laughter further. 

Guess he forgot to warn Art about that. 

“Yeah, Lils, daddy was jealous of my makeover. But I think he needs a little more, don’t you?” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” She shrieks, already making work of her tube of gloss and her pink eyeshadow compact. 

He’s still chuckling at the surprised oomf sound that Art makes as Lily descends on him. 

“Stay still, daddy!” 

“Yeah, daddy, stay still,” Patrick taunts, nudging his shoulder again. He almost loses it again as Art flips him off behind Lily’s back. 

He almost feels like he’s floating. Buzzing with electricity from the simple joy of this moment. The smile remains firmly in place on his lips as he taps his phone screen on again, checking the time. 

It’s past Lily’s bedtime, but he figures he can blame Art for that, now. Besides, Tashi should be home soon. She might as well stay up to say goodnight at this point, anyway. 

So he watches in merry amusement as Lily gives Art the princess treatment, and that fuzzy feeling tingles in his heart, spreading through his limbs all the way down to his fingertips. 

This is what he’s always wanted. 

Art and Lily in arm’s reach, Tashi changing the world but coming home to them at the end of the night.

And tomorrow, when Peggy arrives, the house will be overflowing with the warmth and happiness and joy his childhood home never had.

He’ll have all his favorite people—his family —under one roof.

And he’ll know that he really and truly belongs.