Archive of Our Own

“How did I let you talk me into this, again?” 

The Death Valley was living up to its name to an unbearably agonising degree.

Letting out a long suffering sigh that brought out an honest-to-god giggle from the boy beside him, Art surveyed their current predicament.

“I didn’t talk you into anything,” Patrick quipped back, unconcerned. The hot desert wind blew the curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. “You agreed all on your own.”

He was lying through his teeth, but Art didn't have the energy to argue with him and settled with a roll of his eyes. Tired, he leaned against the hood of the car, almost burning the back of his head.

Art cursed loudly with a yelp, to Patrick’s visibly growing delight. The prick was grinning ear to ear, and reached out a condescending hand to pat his back. Art kicked him in the shin just because, and watched him wobble and curse with a real sense of satisfaction.

The barren and cracked ground seemed to stretch out endlessly on either side of them, the sparse dry shrubbery and the sun that seemed intent on sucking the soul out of them their only company for miles. Patrick hopped around on one leg like an idiot.

“We’re going to die here.” Art lamented, and Patrick laughed. “We’re going to die of fucking heatstroke, and nobody’s going to find us in this stupid desert.”

“We’re not dying,” Patrick rolled his eyes, then added with a grin. “At most, we’ll pass out and get picked up by a trafficking ring.” 

He tried kicking him again, but Patrick was quicker, and moved out of the way.

“This is all your fault.” Art did his best to glare at him, but he was exhausted. “You and your shitty car.” 

Patrick snickered, meeting his glare head on. 

“Yeah? And who's fault is it that we're lost in the first place?” 

They had maybe veered off course due to his…less than adequate map reading skills.

But shamelessness was among one of the many traits of Patrick Zweig's that had rubbed off on Art Donaldson—though not nearly in the same capacity, god forbid—and this would not be enough to stop him.

“Like you're any better. You tried reading it too.”

“Yeah, after you'd already fucked things up."

“Bold, coming from someone who forgot to fill his gas tank on a road trip.”

Patrick looked like he had another counter ready on the tip of his tongue, but before he could say anything, his phone vibrated. 

Flipping Art off in lieu of a verbal response, he checked his email, and a charged silence fell between the two of them.

Surprisingly, Patrick gave in first. 

And in hindsight, Art should've known. He should've known that Patrick Zweig didn't give in, not for no reason.

“C’mon,” He grabbed Art's arm, eyes big and dripping honey. The absolute phoney. “Let's not be like this. The Guy is gonna be here any minute now.”

The Guy was a random thirty something man who happened to be the only one passing by the same way as them, and stopped to ask if they needed any help.

Art sighed. “He's not coming, man. Don't be stupid.” 

It had already been more than an hour since he left with promises of getting back with help, and he was nowhere in sight. He was almost confused; it wasn't like Patrick to have so much faith in a stranger.

But then again, he mused, he had ended up being right about Tashi. 

There was a strange light in Patrick’s eyes, there and gone the next second, and Art almost thought he imagined it.

“He’ll come back,” Patrick repeated, smiling that insufferably self-assured smile of his. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Wanna know why?”

Face preemptively scrunched up in disgust for whatever bullshit he was about to spew, Art decided to humour him. As always. “Why?”

Patrick’s grin turned full cheshire, and he slung an arm around Art’s shoulder, getting into his personal space. His eyes travelled Art up and down briefly, and he tried not to let it get to him. It was just Patrick being Patrick.

“He was totally checking you out.” Patrick declared, and Art pushed his face away roughly.

“Shut up. Like I said, we’re going to die here.”

“He really was! I think if he stared at your ass any harder he’d have drilled a hole into it.”

“Jesus, Patrick. Shut the fuck up. He looked forty.”

“What, you don't see the appeal of the elderly?” Patrick raised an eyebrow, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Have some respect, Donaldson.”

Art shook his head. "You're aggravating.”

“Wanna bet on it?” Patrick proposed, playful, but the challenge was clear in his eyes.

Now, Art wasn’t the most competitive person by any means, but even he couldn’t resist the opportunity to knock his best friend down a peg when it presented itself so graciously.

“You know what?” Art’s face creased into an insincere smile. “Why not?”

Patrick’s responding grin was devilish. “Loser has to do any one thing the winner asks.”

They shook on it, the force behind it pointedly excessive.

Art squeezed. “I hope you’re ready to eat sand, ‘cus he’s not coming.”

“We’ll see about that.” Patrick smiled ambiguously as he retracted his hand, funny-looking even by his standard. 

Straight-away feeling wary, Art found himself suddenly rethinking the decision to agree to the bet, doubtful in the face of Patrick’s ease. And if one was to go by history, they had never turned out in Art’s favour before.

But as the minutes continued to tick by without any new sign of the guy, he started regaining his dwindling confidence.

“Just admit you were wrong, man.” He grinned, cocky. Another half hour had already passed, and they were as alone as they had been two hours ago. “I told you, he’s not—”

The sound of a car horn blaring reached his ears, and he was gifted with the misfortune of watching the most shit-eating smirk break out on Patrick's face, eyes almost scrunched shut with the force of it.  The words died down in his throat.

“—Coming...” 

It was the Guy.

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“Do you realise how shady this looks?” Art whispered, keeping his voice low and glancing furtively around the foyer.  With just two flickering lamps and what looked a lot like old blood staining the carpet, the place did not look promising.

Patrick rolled his eyes, before giving the manager behind the counter a positively stellar smile. The woman gave him an unimpressed stare in return.

“We'll take it.” He said, and handed her the wad of cash. 

Cash, not credit. That in itself was enough to ring a hundred different alarm bells in Art's head. But Patrick had made it clear he was done driving for the day, and this was the only hotel in their vicinity. ‘Beggars, choosers, etc etc.’, as he had eloquently put it.

Art had given in, because even though he wanted to spend what was most likely their last night together on the road comfortably, he could sense that the fatigue of driving throughout the trip had begun settling into Patrick, drooping his eyebrows and dragging his feet.

With the room key successfully acquired, they were left with the daunting task of taking their bags up five flights of weirdly steep stairs, a broken elevator the cherry on top after an already long day.

Art shifted his grip on the bag, bringing it higher up his good shoulder. Giving each other one final shared look of ‘this fucking sucks' , they began their trek upwards.

Halfway up, he could no longer ignore the persistent throbbing pain arcing like electricity through his right side, and cursed under his breath. He tried to breathe in and out deeply as discreetly as he could, but he must not have succeeded, because Patrick stopped abruptly and turned around to face him.

“Give it to me.” 

“Nah, it's fine. I've got it.”

“Art.”

He looked away, tightening his grip on the bag's strap. Patrick sighed, stepping down, and suddenly they were standing almost nose to nose.

Art swallowed, and he would've taken a step back, but the stairs were steep. He was sure that falling down three stories would not be helping his case, and that's what he told himself. 

Patrick, unmoved by the proximity, held his hand out. 

“We can either do this, or you can get over yourself and give it to me.”

Art chewed on his lower lip, and saw Patrick's gaze drop down ever so briefly. 

For a moment that felt suspended in time, they stood there, bodies almost touching, staring each other down. They must've looked ridiculous, but something about Patrick's unrelenting gaze sent a tingle down Art's spine.

“You're an ass.” He huffed out, but yielded, and the weight off his shoulder was an instant relief. His eyes closed involuntarily at the feeling, and he slowly rolled his shoulder.

“Shut up.”

Art opened his eyes to find Patrick grinning lazily at him, eyes bright despite the exhaustion. The low orange light of the stairway caught in his curls, painting them almost gold, almost like—

Fire.

“Thanks,” He offered quietly, giving him a small smile of his own. Art hoped it conveyed the gratitude he felt, not just for the bag but for so much more, for this trip he didn't have to make but did for him, and Patrick's face stuttered.

The moment passed with a flicker of the lone lightbulb, and Patrick caught himself, mumbling out a 'it's whatever' . 

He turned around to continue their journey up, but Art had already noticed the tiniest splotch of red on the tip of his nose. His smile turned into a full fledged grin, something warm crawling inside his chest.

It was a tell Patrick had had since they were twelve.

Deciding to keep it just to himself, he moved to walk behind Patrick, skipping a step to catch up.

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“You know I was serious about the road trip, right?”

They were sitting on the bleachers overlooking the tennis courts on Art's suggestion, watching the students decked out in red play in what Patrick had called his 'masochistic tendency for punishment' . The prick.

Not even deigning him with a verbal response, Art simply turned his head to give him the look. 

“Come on,” Patrick continued, unperturbed by the resistance. He spread his arms magnanimously, as if painting a picture. “The two of us against the American desert.’ What could go wrong?”

Art snorted with a roll of his eyes, but his face was already twitching with a smile.

“Literally everything.”

“Okay, fair. But, consider this,” Patrick amended, and there was a glint in his eyes that Art knew from experience promised nothing good. 

He tilted his head, waiting for him to continue.

“It's gonna be really fucking fun.”

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“This fucking sucks.”

Patrick—having relegated the fishing rod to be held between his thighs the first ten minutes after they sat down—grouched, and used his free hands to light a cigarette. The rod swayed forward, unbalanced, and he clenched his thighs to keep it in place. 

Art was not staring at the way his bare muscles flexed, prominent under the strain. Who even wore shorts in summer?

“You’re the one who wanted to go fishing.” He bit back and looked away, slapping a mosquito lazing around on his bare knee. So what if he was, as well?

Unbeknownst to his internal turmoil, Patrick continued his stupid way of fishing, taking a drag of the cigarette.

“I thought it would be relaxing.” He shrugged his shoulders, which caused the fishing rod to slip, which in turn caused him to tense his thighs even more, and Art could practically feel how firm they must be to the touch.

“It’s boring.”  He forced out between clenched teeth, trying to sound casual. And bored. The second part was considerably easier, though; they’d been sitting around doing nothing for the better part of forty minutes.

“You think I don’t know that?” Patrick rolled his eyes, then offered him the cigarette. Art stared at him over his handful of fishing rod before pointedly looking at the sling, and the other had the nerve to raise an eyebrow, smirking.

Deciding to take a page out of his book, Art settled the rod between his legs, straining his thighs a little more than was necessary to hold it in place before using his free hand to snatch the cigarette. Patrick’s gaze wandered, brief but unsubtle, and he bit his lip. 

Art blew the smoke out in a ring, biting back a satisfied smile.

“Then why are we still here? Let’s hit the hot springs, man.” 

He actually was looking forward to that, and his physical therapist had recommended it himself; how it was a great natural treatment.

“Do you know how hard it was to get a permit at such short notice?” Patrick plucked the cigarette out of his grip, recovered and determined. “We’re gonna fish the fuck out of this lake.”

Art shook his head, smile warm and too indulgent for his own good. 

He’d known Patrick had done a lot of work to make this road trip happen, but the extent of it still managed to catch him by surprise.

Huntington Lake.

It was quiet, the slow sounds of the water and the whistle of the occasional wind passing by almost serene, the cooler weather a respite from the unrelenting heat of mid-July. 

Patrick had closed his eyes, almost reclining as he slid down the chair and settled in a posture that really could not be comfortable. 

Lying in the shade of the lines of oaks and willows, he exuded a tranquillity that was generally far removed from his usual unrestrained self—he looked peaceful.

“You know what,” Art spoke after a while, turning to grin at him. “It’s not too bad.”

Patrick’s eyes crinkled when he smiled at him, softened at the edges, and Art felt something almost violent lurch in his chest. He tightened his grip on the fishing rod.

They didn’t manage to catch a single fish that afternoon.

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“You sure we went the right way?”

“Yes, Patrick,” Art rolled his eyes, folding the frankly ridiculously huge map before chucking it in the back seat. “I know how to read a fucking map.”

Patrick hummed in response, tapping the steering wheel along the shitty song playing on the radio as if this wasn't the 5th time he'd asked him this question in the past hour.

This leg of the route, like most of it, stretched out straight for miles in front of them with seemingly no end in sight. They'd switched and hopped onto another highway a while back, just as it was on the gigantic map—that Patrick still hadn't told him where he got from—but the other seemed to think something was off.

“It's just a gut feeling,” He'd vaguely explained, and Art had snorted.

“That's the coffee from the diner, man.”

Patrick had laughed, turning his head to aim a flick at Art's, who had a grin of his own splitting his face.

“Let's never talk about the diner,” He'd said with a chuckle, and then Art was laughing too. “I think I'm gonna have nightmares about it.”

 Leaning back in his seat, the late afternoon sun had warmed him as the last dredges of laughter at the memory tumbled out of them. 

“Yeah, you and me both.”

Art had fallen asleep in the comfortable silence that ensued, woken up by Patrick some point after asking him to check the map again. 

He stretched, taking care not to jostle his shoulder too much. Wiping the sheen of sweat on his forehead, he ran a hand through his hair.

“Hey, is it me or has it gotten hotter?” Art turned to look at Patrick, who snorted. He rolled his eyes

“I'm being serious, is the AC not working?” He tugged uselessly at his collar to let some air in, and could see Patrick looking at him from the corner of his eye. His own hair was plastered to his forehead, sweat glistening. 

“I turned it off.” He spoke casually, turning his eyes back to the road.

Art gawked at him like he was insane. He had to be. 

“The hell do you mean you turned it off?” Dumbfounded, he moved to turn the AC back on, but Patrick stopped him with a firm hand on his wrist. “Patrick, it's like 90 degrees out here!”  

Patrick refused to say anything or even look at him, and Art was about to demand an explanation when something more pressing caught in the corner of his eye. 

Eyes widening, he pointedly stupidly.

Seeming to notice it the same time as him, Patrick let out a loud string of curses before stepping on the gas. The car jerked forward and Art flailed, wishing he had grown up catholic after all.

“Is that smoke coming out of the bonnet?!” 

“Shit, shit, shit!” 

“Patrick, what the fuck is goi—”

“Shut up for a second, Jesus!”

“You need to slow down!”

Patrick ignored him, running a rough hand through his air, swerving and overtaking the cars in front of them like a mad-man. The smoke continued to rise, thicker than before, and Patrick cursed again, accelerating harder. Art held on to the grab handle with a force that was beginning to hurt his shoulder.

When the smoke became too thick to see anything in front, Patrick swore, but finally seemed to admit some sort of defeat. 

Checking and rechecking the side-view mirror, he finally pulled over,  and the car stopped abruptly with a jolt. Art was sure he heard a hiss. 

A beat passed.

“I think you just broke twenty different traffic regulations,” He said, a broken laugh breaking up his next words. “And our car is about to explode.”

“The car is not exploding,” Patrick ran a hand down his face, peeking at Art between his fingers. “I think.”

It was fucking stupid, but the absurdity of the situation had both of them cracking up, shoulders shaking from laughing. They sat like that for a moment, trying to get themselves together.

“Are you gonna tell me what happened, man?” Art finally asked, looking at him fully. “I was asleep for like thirty minutes. At most.”

“Forty,” Patrick shot back, but at his unimpressed stare, continued begrudgingly. “It's the water coolant.”

“What about it?"

“It broke.”

“How does it just break?”

“I don’t know,” Art raised a brow, unconvinced, and Patrick almost sounded guilty. “..I must’ve attached it wrong after changing it, or something.”

Letting his head fall back with a thunk, Art eyed the smoke billowing out of the overheated car, swirling in the dry desert air. He rolled his head in Patrick’s direction.

“We should probably get out of the car.”

“Right,” Patrick nodded, and just as they moved to get out, someone knocked on Art’s window. 

There was a man standing there expectantly, giving them a good-natured smile.

Exchanging a brief look with Patrick, he rolled the window down, and the man leaned in slightly. Beads of sweat dripped down his neck and onto the car seat, and Art tried not to scrunch his face in disgust.

“You boys alright out here?” He asked, voice having a slight southern drawl to it.

Before Art could explain and ask for some needed help, Patrick spoke up first.

“Yeah, we're just stopping by on our way to Convict Lake,” He said, leaning over Art and giving the man a smile that was wholly insincere. The man eyed the smoke dubiously, eyebrows raised.

Art frowned, trying to catch Patrick's eye. We need the help. Patrick waved him off.

“Convict Lake? I’m afraid you’re a long way from there, son.”

Art froze, but Patrick still looked at ease, like he'd already guessed. He still widened his eyes a little in polite surprise. 

“Is that so?” He elbowed Art hard in the stomach, still smiling. Art wheezed.

The man was now eyeing them dubiously, but Patrick either paid it no mind or didn't notice. Knowing him, it was probably the first.

“Anyhow, you better get that smoke checked out,” The man continued uselessly, because of course they were going to. “It's a good thing you stopped near the gas station.”

Eyes widening, Art almost head butted Patrick as he leaned over his seat, their sides brushing. He tried to look outside the window, and sure enough, a gas station was just ahead of them. 

From a short distance, he could see one of the employees already checking out their car.

He turned his head to look at Patrick, and suddenly realised how ridiculous the two of them must look, leaning over each other's seats criss-crossed. One glance at the man's expression confirmed the same, and Art straightened up quickly. Patrick did the same, much more at ease. 

Art cleared his throat.

“Is that why you—?” Almost made us roadkill. Patrick nodded.

Art lowered his head, and felt a ghost of a smile tugging at his cheeks. Of course. It was Patrick.

The Man bid them a curt farewell, much less friendly than before, and left. Patrick grinned.

“We really should get out of the car before it explodes.”

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“Where are we headed?”

Art yawned, blinking his eyes blearily. He stretched slowly as he worked out the kinks in his neck, eyes half-lidded with the final traces of sleep unwilling to let go fully. The hike to the Sequoia grove had left him tired, shoulder aching despite them taking the easiest trail.

Patrick was humming along to the song playing on the radio, volume lowered as if to not rouse Art from sleeping. 

The gesture, as mundane as it was, made his insides turn fuzzy.

“You’ll see soon.”

Curiosity piquing at the cryptic answer, he rubbed at his eyes, opening them fully to look at the boy next to him.

Art drew in a breath. 

Engulfed in the flooding rays of the setting sun, as though covered in molten gold, Patrick was iridescent. It caught in the blue of his eyes, bringing out the flecks of green in them and making them shimmer—a mirage conjured by the desert for a dying man; the gift of false hope, a sight for sore eyes.

And as Art looked at the boy haloed, at how light itself seemed drawn to him; to the sheer weight of his existence that demanded to be seen, he felt like was dying, a little. Almost like an epiphany, it struck him again that it was inevitable for Patrick to be the fire between them—the intensity with which he was wouldn't allow him to be anything else. 

“Get ready, Donaldson. You’re about to be blown away.” 

Swallowing the overwhelming feeling of something threatening to tip over and ruin this—ruin him —Art cleared his throat, looking out the window.

The view paled in comparison.

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Art fell.

He didn’t register it while it happened; it hit him after he hit the ground, all at once and as sudden as the pain that spiked through his shoulder, the sound of the blood rushing through his ears as deafening as the crack that resounded throughout the court. He didn’t know he was screaming until someone was pulling his face into their hands, trembling fingers brushing over his lips and cheeks to soothe.

Patrick.

Patrick’s mouth was moving, and through the blurry haze—was he crying?—Art thought he could make out the words, ‘you’re okay’, repeated over and over again. Overwhelmed by the pain and the noise and the hands probing at him, Art focused on the touch cradling his face, shutting his eyes tightly and taking a deep breath in.

Someone asked him if he could stand and he nodded, and soon he was hauled to his feet, the steady weight of Patrick keeping him upright. He couldn’t see him, but he didn’t have to.

Art was eighteen when he fell, laid out in a hospital room after his surgery.

Patrick was uncharacteristically quiet standing next to him, eyes fixated on his broken shoulder.

Art didn’t know what to think, didn’t want to think; the idea of this being It too enormous and unreal and ugly, and he didn’t want to think about it. The weight of the sling on his shoulder felt like it was mocking him, and he didn’t even want to look at it—the ache in tandem with his heartbeat dulled by the painkillers they pumped him full of a constant enough reminder.

“Do you have a cigarette?” He heard himself ask, because he felt like the silence was driving him insane. They were definitely not allowed to smoke in here, and were probably going to set off ten different alarms, but he needed Patrick to be Patrick.

His question seemed to snap the other boy out of whatever daze he was in, eliciting one of his well-worn smirks. It was taut and pulled at the edges, but Art was grateful anyway.

He was wearing one of Tashi’s shirts, Art realised; the one she was wearing the last time he had a conversation with her. That’s not something he wanted to think about either.

I told you.

“Here,” It was Patrick’s turn to pull him out of his thoughts as he tapped a lit cigarette against Art’s bottom lip. Opening his mouth before closing it around it, Art hollowed his cheeks, letting the fingers linger before bringing his other hand up to swat at Patrick’s. He blew the smoke in his face.

“I can still hold my own cigarette,” He smiled, meant to joke, but it came out bitter.

“You’re gonna be fine.” Patrick declared with his usual air of confidence, except his voice was serious and very un-Patrick like, eyes intense as they locked onto his.

“You don’t know that.” Art mumbled while looking away, but Patrick grabbed his chin, making him look back up, brows furrowed. 

“It’s just a rotator cuff. You’ll be up and playing before you know it.”

Art searched his eyes, and was terrified to find no trace of dishonesty in them; none of the usual mischief. He didn't know what he'd do if he couldn't live up to Patrick's belief in him. 

Who was he if he wasn’t playing tennis?

But this was all going against his firm and newly formed resolution of just not thinking about it, and because he never claimed to not be a coward, he deflected. 

"How's Tashi?"

Predictably, Patrick didn't answer, choosing to flick his forehead, hard. Art winced.

“Dickhead.” Patrick muttered, settling on the chair next to the bed, kicking his slippers off to rest his legs over Art's.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, fidgeting with the box of Camel cigarettes in his hands.

Art looked him over, at his four day old shirt that had a coffee stain on the front and the god-knows how long ago washed hair.

“Don't you have somewhere to be, man? A match? Practice?” He asked as casually as he could, flicking cigarette ash at him. “You're here all the time.” 

“Do you want me to leave?” Patrick asked instead, without opening his eyes, and Art shut his mouth.

It’s not like Art had anyone else to call, anyway.

The silence stretched between them, and it was nothing new—they'd spent their entire adolescence together, their silences always just as comfortable as their banter. It should've been nothing, but Art couldn't help but feel like insects were crawling all over his skin, prickling and prodding. He needed to say something.

"What’re you gonna do for the summer?” Patrick asked, and beat him to it. As he always did. “Can’t practice for at least a few months.” And managed to say something wholly irritating at the same time. As he always did.

“Thanks, man. Appreciate the sensitivity.” Art snarked, jostling Patrick's legs by moving his own. 

Patrick only gave him a lazy grin in return, but his mind seemed elsewhere. Art could practically see the rusty gears turning in his best friend's mind a mile a minute, and couldn't help the unease and anticipation that started building up inside him simultaneously, like fizz about to explode out of a can of soda.

Patrick looked at him fully, then, eyes roaming over his face as if he was confirming something for himself. Art swallowed, trying to look nonchalant. 

"Why don't we do something together?" Patrick eventually proposed, leaning forward and pressing his hands against Art's bed. He was almost touching his thigh.

Art raised a brow.

"Like what?"

Just as the smoke alarm went off, Patrick grinned.

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“Did she not see that there were two of us?”

Standing in the open doorway of their hotel room, Art stared at the single double bed in the middle. Patrick hit the back of his head on his way in, grinning lazily.

“Don't be such a prude, Art.”

Art rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the churning in his stomach. After all, this wasn’t a first—they'd been roommates for half a decade, and had pushed their beds together in hotels during tournaments for almost all of that time.

But it had been a year, and he wasn't stupid enough to not know something had shifted in the time since. Ever since—

“Does it really bother you?” Patrick's voice sounded carefully blank, busying himself with looking at anything but Art.

Eyes widening, Art realised he hadn't moved from his spot, standing still at the door. 

“No, no it doesn't,” He fumbled a little as walked in, words rushed. 

Patrick smiled stiffly in response, and his uncharacteristic silence felt like a hand around Art's own throat. 

He couldn't stand it—this—whatever this even was. It crept up between them like a vine at times, twisting and turning, and Art felt trapped. He didn't know what was worse—the idea of Patrick looking at him like he needed to be careful around him, or the idea of Patrick not looking at him at all. 

He needed to fix it, for them to be them, even if it didn’t last.

Breathing out, Art sat down on the edge of the bed, keeping his expression as casual as he could. He stared at his hands, and saw Patrick look at him from the corner of his eye, face controlled. 

Art shrugged. “I'm just worried about your feet ending up in my face again.”

Patrick blinked once in surprise before his face split into a smile, and the pressure released off of Art's chest at once.

He threw a sock at him, pointing an accusing finger. “That was one time.” 

Catching the dirty sock with one hand, Art grinned as he threw it back, and to his satisfaction, hit Patrick square in the face.

“It was way more than that and you know it.”

“Twice. At most.” Patrick grinned, walking over to the AC and thumping once. It let out a broken noise in return.

As simple as it was, Art felt the tension ease off of him as they fell into the comfort of their old routine, the conversation flowing out as easy as water. It was familiar enough to make Art think that maybe he'd been overthinking this whole thing, and maybe not much had shifted after all. 

Suddenly they were thirteen and at their first doubles tournament again, scared and excited and ready to take on the world if it came to it.

In this moment, it almost felt like no time had passed at all.

Art blinked, and suddenly they were eighteen and too close, and when did Patrick get right in front of him?  

Knees knocking against each other's, Patrick leaned down slightly. His voice was casual when he spoke, as if recalling a harmless memory from the sandbox. 

“Hey, remember what happened the last time we were in a hotel together?”

Art blinked stupidly in response.

Memories of lips and hands and skin and tongue flashed hot like a fever in his mind, and he felt a little drunk. Patrick was staring at him like he was drunk, but Art could swear they hadn't consumed a drop of alcohol between them.

Deciding that he needed to look at something that was not Patrick, Art broke eye contact, and fixed his eyes on the bed sheet instead.

“Art?”

Something caught his eye. 

“Hey, I didn’t—” Patrick’s voice was hesitant as he spoke, unlike his usual brashness. Art barely paid attention, eyes zeroed in.

“...Bed bugs?”

“Huh?”

The slowed down synapses of his brain started firing again at once, and Art jumped up from the bed so quickly he slammed straight into Patrick, who stumbled backwards, startled. Sharp pain shot up Art’s shoulder from the impact, and he grimaced as he tried to find his own footing.

Patrick reached out a hand to steady him, eyes wide, but Art dodged, pointing at the bed instead. Something almost like hurt flickered in Patrick’s eyes, but he retracted his hand.

Walking over to inspect the bed, Patrick made  a face after noticing the tiny red insects, swiftly grabbing his phone that he'd thrown on it moments prior.

“I’m not sleeping with bed bugs,” Art managed to voice out, hoarse, avoiding Patrick's eyes. 

“We’ll just ask for a different room.” 

Art finally looked at him, and there was a small crease in Patrick’s forehead as he considered him, eyeing the sling on his shoulder. 

Grabbing his wallet from the nightstand, Patrick walked straight past him, speaking on the way out. “I’ll go.”

The door shut behind him before Art could even get a word out.

Left standing in the middle of the room, a cold feeling sunk in his lungs despite the summer heat, the dull whirring of the broken AC the only sound.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩｡°⋆

“What can I get you two?” The waitress—Julie, as her name tag read—asked, smile so clipped it looked more like a grimace. She flipped open her notepad. 

The diner, by virtue of being tucked almost in the middle of nowhere, was empty save for the two of them and one lone guy drinking coffee at the counter. They’d stumbled upon the place accidentally, and Patrick had been tired enough from driving that Art suggested they stop by.

“Well?” She prompted. 

Patrick leaned towards her with his elbows on the table, beaming. “Maybe you could help us decide?”

Responding with nothing but a severe eye roll, she walked away without sparing them another glance. Art shook his head.

“You’re infuriating.” He stated plainly, and Patrick shrugged his shoulders with a grin.

His eyes seemed to shift behind Art momentarily before doing a double take, widening. He swiftly ducked his head.

“What?” Art half turned to look at whatever Patrick had seen, but the other stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Don’t look,” He whispered, for some reason. Art looked at him questioningly, and Patrick peeked behind him one more time as if to confirm. “It’s Kat Zimmerman.”

Surprised, he whirled to look behind him fully, Patrick trying and failing to grab at his arm.

“Oh shit, it really is her.” Art whistled lowly, ignoring the protests aimed at him. He turned back to find Patrick staring at him in mild betrayal, and ignored it again. He tilted his head.

“And why do you need to hide from her, again?”

Patrick slumped completely at that, resting his head on his elbows before tilting to look up at Art, an impish smile splitting his face wide. “It’s possible that there’s more to the story than you know.”

“Is that so?” Art laughed as he leaned down with interest. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not exactly.”

Art's grin was identical to Patrick’s. “You’re a dog.”

Patrick pushed his face up towards him, and this close, Art could almost count the freckles dusting his nose.

“A dog who—”

“Are you ready to order?” The waitress from before stopped in front of their table, looking at them impatiently. 

Art settled back in his seat briskly, something dangerously close to disappointment overturning his stomach. Pushing it down, he started speaking before Patrick could, giving her a close mouthed smile. She faltered a little.

“Two iced coffees, please. Black.” Her eye twitched at the order, but she noted it down, glancing at him once more before leaving.

“What was that? ” Patrick asked and leaned closer again, eyes squinting teasingly.

Art rolled his eyes. “What was what?”

“You know wha—shit, she’s staring right at me,” Patrick straightened up slightly, face scrunching in distaste before smoothening over. Art frowned.

“The waitress?”

“No, Kat. And she’s walking over here.” 

“What did you even do?” Art eyed him suspiciously, having known him long enough to know it was definitely his fault.

“It’s not about what I did. It’s what I didn’t do.” Muttering hastily just before she stopped in front of them, Patrick gave her an emphatically radiant smile. “Kat, long time!”

Responding with a smile that was even more disingenuous than his, Kat looked them both over. “It really has been.”

“You look great,” Art supplied with a little wave.

She smiled at him the same time Patrick kicked him under the table. Art kicked back with more force, watching in amusement as the other tried to hide the grimace.

“Wish I could say the same,” Kat replied cheerfully, eyeing the sling on his shoulder. “What happened there?”

He managed to keep the smile fixed on his face, jaw clenching.

“Don’t you worry about it,” Patrick cut in smoothly, eyes gleaming as they crinkled with a smile. “It’s not as bad as yours was.”

Art stifled a snort with a cough while Kat’s eyes narrowed. The two of them stared each other down for a heated moment before her expression eased back into a smile, the force behind it almost venomous. “I see you’re the same as ever.”

“Wish I could say the same,” Patrick said with a shrug of his shoulders, and this time Art did snort.

Kat’s smile twitched, but before she could say anything else, someone from her group called out to her.

She looked between the two of them once again before something shifted in her expression, almost gleeful. She gave them a wide smile before waving goodbye. “I hope you two lovebirds have a great trip, wherever it is you’re going.”

She left without waiting for a response, and Art was left with a strange feeling of unease in his gut. One look at Patrick and he could tell the other felt the same.

“You think she’ll poison our coffee?” Patrick asked, eyebrows set seriously. It took all of two seconds for a grin to find its way to his face, bright and playful.

Art laughed, and felt himself relax. It was probably going to be nothing—what could Kat even do?

The waitress brought over their coffee a few minutes later, and as disgusting as it tasted, he was sure that that had more to do with the eighty year old lady behind the counter brewing it than Kat.

But standing outside the diner, mouths gaping as they stared blankly at the three flat tires that adorned their car, it turned out that she could do a lot.

Leftover air hissed out of one of the tires, the torn rubber looking back at them pathetically.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩｡°⋆

Art could hear voices in between his muddled consciousness, distant and echoing.

“—really bad case of postoperative fever...”

He tried to blink his sticky eyes open, but bright and sterile lights assaulted his vision as soon as he did.

Groaning, he cracked his eyes open the tiniest bit, the sound seeming to alert the people around him. He could make out a few blurry shapes around him, and one of those blurry blobs reached out, a cool touch glazing his forehead soon after. 

“Hey,” The blob spoke softly, and if Art tried to focus, shaped into the silhouette of a person. “You're awake.”

Even through the haze of the fever, some distant part of Art's brain recognised the voice, as familiar to him as his own. 

The cool touch on his forehead began to caress, running through his hair, and Art leaned into it with whatever strength he could muster.

**

The next time Art woke up, it was to someone's gentle rousing, soft murmurs entering his ears. 

His head hurt like someone had hammered it like a nail in wood, but he still felt marginally more alert, like the molasses covering his consciousness had thinned. 

Slowly opening his eyes with some effort, he was relieved to be met with a mellow ambience, the lights turned low. 

A tender hand brushed over Art’s cheek, causing him to shift his line of sight. Another person came into view, the face slightly distorted by the shadows and blurry around the edges, but he recognised it all the same.

“Patrick,” He croaked out, voice rough from disuse. His throat felt hoarse. 

Patrick leaned into the light, and his face crinkled with a small smile.

“Look who finally decided to wake up,” He moved his hand to card it gently through Art's curls, scratching at the base of his skull. 

Art mewled, not in his mind enough to be embarrassed by it, and the sound bought something alight in Patrick's eyes. His fingers continued their ministrations as he spoke, voice firm. “You need to eat.”

Art nodded his head—or tried to, it felt like it weighed two tons—and the motion rattled his microwaved brain. Feeling bile rise up in the back of his throat, he winced, face scrunching up in pain.

Patrick's hand retracted abruptly and Art whined at the loss, but the other boy only grinned in response.

“Needy, are we?” He teased, and laughed quietly at Art's scowl.

Thumbing at the space between his eyebrows to smoothen the crease, Patrick proceeded to help him sit up, bringing a glass of water to his lips after he'd caught his breath.

His bones felt like jelly and the movement made him woozy, but Patrick was right there, hands and presence keeping him steady.

“Open up,” Patrick ordered, bringing a spoon to his lips after blowing on it, and Art obliged readily. The warm liquid soothed his throat as it went down. 

Patrick continued to feed him like that, spoon after spoon until the bowl was empty, making him swallow his medication right after. He swiped a thumb over Art's lips to wipe off any excess traces, bringing it up absentmindedly to his own and licking. 

Eyes trained on Art, Patrick's gaze was burning. 

“Look at you,” He murmured, voice low. “So open and easy.”

Art only faintly registered the words, bone-tired. The food had made him drowsy, and he struggled a little to keep his eyes open before a hand moved to cover them, blanketing him in the comfort of darkness.

“Rest.” Patrick spoke, his soft but commanding voice the last thing in Art's mind before the vacuum of sleep reclaimed him once again.

**

On the morning his fever broke, Art opened his eyes to the sound of someone snoring. 

The first thing he registered was the way his clothes felt stuck to him, disgustingly drenched in sweat like he had entered and left a sauna fully clothed.

Filing a shower on the top of his priority list, the second—and arguably more pressing—thing Art registered was the weight of someone else pressed to him, a head resting in the crook of his neck and soft breaths tickling it.

His body seemed to recognise the presence before his brain could fully catch up, years of sleeping together having accustomed them to even each other's breathing patterns.

Regardless, he knew there was only one person it could be, anyway. 

Art shifted slowly, keeping his movements minimal and quiet as he faced the boy sleeping next to him.

Patrick's eyes fluttered, long eyelashes gently caressing his freckled cheeks as he breathed in and out, chest rising and falling steadily with the motion. 

The early morning light coming through the gap in the curtains made the plains of his face almost glow, highlighting his high cheekbones and contrasting against the dark of his curls, unruly and falling over his eyes. Soft to the touch.

Not for the first time, Art found him beautiful.

And something about the way he looked so calm, at rest in a way he never was when awake, made Art unable to look away. It had been a long time since he'd fallen asleep next to Patrick. 

Patrick stirred, face scrunching in irritation as the light hit his eyes. He shifted, leaning to burrow his head in Art's chest.

Art stiffened as Patrick inched closer, hair tickling his chin, and he could feel the heat the other was radiating.

The heart monitor connected to him started beeping like crazy, and he was filled with a horrifying embarrassment. Face red, he tried to push Patrick away gently with one arm but the boy just wouldn't budge, and if Art didn't get his heart rate under control the nurse would come and—

“Art Donaldson,” Came Patrick's voice, rough from sleep. Art froze, and the beeping crescendoed. Patrick shifted back, eyes narrowed in some combination of sleep, amusement, and concern.

“Freshly back from the dead and already trying to get back in the grave?” He asked, yawning. The early light combined with the lingering wisps of sleep turned his smile into something softer, rounded at the edges. 

It was almost enough to make Art forget what a pain in the ass he was when fully awake, and his heart thumped uselessly, feeling caught in his throat. The monitor beeped loudly.

Fingers suddenly ghosted the back of his hand, careful and light, and started drawing circles.

To his growing mortification, Art's heartbeat jumped at the initial contact, eliciting a breathy chuckle from Patrick. He looked up at Art, fingers stilling momentarily.

Do you want me to?

Art gave an almost imperceptible nod, but that was enough for the other boy. With a satisfied gleam in his eyes, Patrick's fingers resumed without hesitation, progressively wandering over to his wrist. Art's thundering heartbeat gradually slowed, and the monitor started beeping normally again.

Before Patrick could say anything, Art pulled away from the touch and turned his back to him, ears burning red.

“We are never talking about this again.”

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩｡°⋆

“Can I see some I.D?” The man behind the counter asked, tone disinterested as he scanned the beer bottles.

They handed over their very fake identification as casually as they could, and even though they’d gotten away with it more times than Art could count, he couldn’t help the slight nervousness he felt every single time.

Unsurprisingly, the man only glanced over them once before handing them back, briefly looking between Art and Patrick to confirm their faces. 

Paying using Art’s wallet that the other didn't even know when he’d gotten his hands on, Patrick picked up the plastic bags filled with supplies (beer, licorice, and one single apple) and motioned for them to leave, walking out first.

Art found himself lingering, and eyed the souvenirs hanging on the wall behind the cashier; a hoard of keychains, caps, and all sorts of other knick-knacks on display.

“Hey, we’re gonna be late!” Patrick called out from the entrance, sticking his head between the gap.

“Just a second,” Art shouted back, and when the sound of the door closing reached his ears with the jingle of a bell, picked out two of the one he liked best, paying and leaving quickly.

“Did you get anything else?” Patrick asked him as he got into the car, looking him over curiously.

Art tried his best to sound nonchalant, looking the other in the eye evenly. “Nah, just looked around to see if we needed anything else.”

**

Mono Hot Springs Resort was probably the fanciest part of their whole trip, and Art had no idea where Patrick had even heard of it; secluded and nestled deep within the Sierra, the road to it windy and narrow.

Breathing in the fresh evening air cooling his face, he closed his eyes, and felt some of the tension bleed out of his taut muscles. The drive up to the resort had not been too kind on his shoulder, the familiar pain already starting to build up in his right side. 

The idea of soaking his aching muscles in a hot spring sounded almost heavenly. 

The cabin they'd rented for the night felt a little cramped with both them and their bags stuffed inside, but it had been the cheapest option, and they had spent time in enough crappy hotel rooms to not be bothered. The beds were positioned facing each, but placed on opposite sides of the room, the space small enough that their corners touched. 

“I'm never driving after this,” Patrick groaned as he dropped face first into one of them.

Smiling, Art kicked his shoes off before laying himself down on the bed carefully. The mattress was soft and firm in all the right ways, and the scent of freshly laundered sheets surrounded him. 

He stared at the ceiling, at the expensive looking and stainless panelling, and did his best to press down the herculean feeling of his own uselessness trying to turn him inside out.

It wasn't fair. Nothing about this was. 

They shouldn't even be here in the first place; they were supposed to be putting their blood and sweat into practicing, getting better and going pro. Patrick should've been on the court, touring all over instead of lugging Art around on a road trip that he only planned for him in the first place. And Art could barely do anything to help.

It was nauseating.

“Shut up.” Patrick spoke suddenly, abruptly halting his train of thought.

Mildly indignant, Art frowned. 

“I didn't even say anything?”

Patrick lifted his head and turned it back slightly, curls mussed and sticking up every which way. 

“I can hear you thinking.”

Art rolled his eyes, but the certainty in Patrick's voice, that he knew he knew him, made his heart thump traitorously in his chest. 

He grabbed a pillow and threw it in Patrick's general direction, expecting it to be thrown back at him. It wasn't. 

“I'm doing this because I want to,” Patrick's voice was muffled from the bedding but firm all the same, and Art froze. “So get it through your head and stop.”

Throat closing up with an intensity that hurt, Art felt something prickling at the corners of his eyes. He swallowed. “Stop what?”

Patrick threw the pillow at him then, and somehow managed to hit him square in the face. His voice had the familiar edge of playfulness in it when he spoke, grin all but visible.

“Agonising.”

Art hugged the pillow close to his chest, a smile making its way to his face, fond and exasperated. Leave it to Patrick to annoy him out of his misery. "I am not agonising.”

“You are. You're agonising all over this nice resort and interrupting my rest.”

Art huffed out laugh, and in the settling dusk that began to paint their cabin in a plethora of shadows, felt something loosen in his lungs.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩｡°⋆

“I thought you said you knew how to ‘read a fucking map’, Art?” 

Sitting in the shade outside the gas station convenience store, Art unwrapped the lemon popsicle and endeavoured to ignore Patrick's gloating voice.

“And I thought you knew how to not make your car explode,” He responded evenly, expression unimpressed. “You'd think that would be easy.”

Patrick grinned, lips orange, and pointed his dripping popsicle at him in victory. “Yeah, but the car didn't explode, and we're definitely still lost.” 

Art didn't have anything to say to that, so in lieu of a response he just looked the other directly in the eye before taking a blunt bite out of the popsicle. It tasted sour.

Patrick scrunched his nose in distaste like the action hurt his own teeth. He ate his leisurely, making sure to mouth at it suggestively whenever Art made the mistake of looking his way. Prick. 

“Well, we've got four hours to kill,” Patrick began after he was done, chewing on the stick. “What do you wanna do?”

Art poked his own finished popsicle stick in Patrick's cheek. “What can we do? We're in the middle of a nowhere town.”

“Not exactly,” He grinned, and there was a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

Already looking forward to and prematurely regretting whatever they were about to do in equal amounts, Art raised a brow. 

“What do you mean?”

“I was talking to one of the mechanics fixing our car, and apparently, there's a few casinos around here.” Patrick leaned forward, already buzzing with excitement, and Art laughed in response.

“You wanna gamble? With what money?” 

“Come on, we can spare a little for some fun, can't we?” Patrick urged, getting so far in Art's personal space that he almost got cross-eyed. Art pushed him back.

Undeterred, Patrick continued, alight with anticipation. “And who knows, we might even win big.”

Art rolled his eyes. “Nobody wins big.”

Patrick pouted and sat back on his elbows, shaking his head. 

“So what do you propose we do? Got any better ideas?” 

Art didn't—and he knew Patrick knew that he didn't—and sighed. 

Immediately jumping up with an aggravating grin, Patrick grabbed his good arm, pulling him under his own.

“Then let's go.” 

Resistance was always futile when it came to Patrick, and Art knew he never really wanted to resist the boy anyway. So he allowed himself to be pulled, like the countless times he had already. 

Patrick looked at him sideways, smiling wide.

“They won't know what hit 'em!” 

**

“Hey, hey,” Patrick placated, hands raised and an appeasing smile turned to ten. “We're just playing like everyone else here.”

“Bullshit! They were cheating plain as day and I know it!”

“Didn't seem all that plain when you lost four times in a row, did it?” He countered, and when the man looked like he was going to physically explode, sidelined him for the manager entirely. 

“He's just sore because he lost. You have nothing to worry about.”

“He,” The manager began, voice barely controlled, and Patrick's smile froze. “Is my brother-in-law, and you better come clean right now.” 

Patrick winced, and before he could make things worse, Art moved in front of him.

That was the problem with small towns, he thought. Everyone knew everyone. 

Putting forth his best mollifying face, Art looked between the two angry men. “Please, this is just a small misundersta—”

“The cripple was using his sling to cheat, I'd bet on it!”

Stunned, Art blinked. “Excuse me?” 

The man rolled his eyes, and annoyance started swirling hot in Art's gut. Annoyance, along with a feeling he didn't particularly want to place. 

Crippled. 

The man poked Art's chest with an accusing finger, and suddenly all other thoughts began melting into the anger that had been steadily brewing in his gut over the past two months. 

Is that what he was? Too damaged to do the one thing he was good at, to hit a ball with a racket?

The rational part of him knew that this anger wasn't really aimed at some inconsequential comment made by an angry stranger. It was an anger that coursed deep in his blood, what he exhaled with every breath. 

It was a gun that only pointed one way, and he was tired of being the one staring down the barrel. 

Loosely, he registered how everyone present was staring at them.

Unconcerned, the man continued. “Don't act all high and—”

“With your luck,” Patrick interrupted, smile all teeth, and pushed past Art into the man's space. “I wouldn't be betting on anything.”

The man sputtered, and both him and the manager turned a shade redder as they fumbled to speak. “You little shit, how dare you, after cheating in my—” 

Smack.

“Jesus Christ, Art!” 

The whole casino broke into an uproar at once, and some of the people dashed towards them as the man's nose bled all over the carpeted floor. Art shook his wrist rapidly, knuckles already bruising with the force of the hit.

“Fuck, that hurt!”

Patrick's eyes had widened impossibly, and Art could tell he'd caught him completely off guard. 

Blinking once in stupor, he broke into a roar of delighted laughter, eyes bright as his hand reached out for Art. 

But just before he could, someone grabbed Art by the collar.

All he saw was a flash of knuckles before the wind was knocked out of his lungs, teeth clanking together painfully. 

“Art!”

Staggering, he gasped, and briefly registered that he'd bit his own tongue, the iron taste bitter. 

It freaking hurt.

Art raised his head, and regret began replacing the anger in him like a bucket of cold water. 

The guy who'd punched him was a burly security guard at least 3 times his size. 

And as Art wracked his brain for any way to get the hell out of this, someone grabbed his arm, and then they were bolting. 

Patrick was gripping onto him like their life depended on it—and it most likely did—and ran. They ran through the corridors, between the neon signs and game machines until the entrance finally came into view, and then double doors slammed behind them as they continued to run. 

They ran even after the people chasing them had stopped, and kept running until the gas station finally came into view, stopping only when they reached the entrance of that same convenience store.

“I cannot believe,” Patrick whistled in between heaving breaths, bent down with his hands on his knees. He looked up at Art, and he looked wholly alive. “Art Donaldson, knocking someone out. Never thought you had it in you.”

His shoulder was throbbing and trying to breathe sent a sharp stab of pain through his stomach, but Art laughed, real and honest.

He had hit someone after cheating them.

“Shut up.”

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩｡°⋆

“Hope you two didn't have to wait too long,” The Guy—Grant, they'd since found out—smiled at them, apologetic.

Art shook his head, ignoring Patrick’s annoyingly pleased face to give him a smile of his own. “You’ve really saved us here.”

“Just doing what anybody would’ve.” The Guy waved him off, chuckling.

He had graciously brought with him two mechanics and a whole tow truck from the nearest gas station—that was thirty miles from here, driving sixty both ways—and it was definitely not something anybody would’ve done.

Looking at him clearly again without the scorching heat trying to melt his brain off, Art realised he didn’t look that old, likely just in his late twenties. He vaguely felt the need to make up, feeling a little bad for calling him forty.

“Still, if there’s anything we can do for you–”

“Yeah, anything,” Patrick interrupted with an emphatic nod, and Art elbowed him in the stomach.

He continued as Patrick hissed in pain. “Please, don’t hesitate.”

The guy looked between them with a thoughtful smile before nodding his head, and just as the ensuing silence began teetering on awkward, spoke while pointing a thumb backwards. “I’m gonna see if they need anything.”

Art watched as he turned and left before kicking at Patrick. “Are you twelve?”

Patrick sidestepped, grinning wide. “What? I was just being considerate of the man who helped us out with the agenda of getting in your pa–ow! ”

“Can you not be yourself for like five minutes? At least until our car is fixed.”

“You know, I wouldn’t be worrying about me, if I were you.” Patrick smirked, triumphant. “You lost, Donaldson.”

Art looked straight ahead. “I have no recollection of what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, really?” Patrick moved right in front of him and almost stepped on his toes, lips split ear to ear. 

Before things could escalate— how, Art didn’t know—The Guy jogged back to them, face sheepish. “Looks like the car needs to be towed back.” 

**

The drive to the gas station ended up being relatively quiet, both of them too exhausted from the heat for anything else.

The Guy had offered to drive them both since he was going the same way, and Art had at least had the decency to pretend to look conflicted as Patrick made a beeline for the backseat, spreading himself over it obnoxiously and falling asleep almost immediately after.

Faintly recognising the tune playing on the radio, Art glanced sideways at The Guy, at ease despite having to haul around two teenagers he knew next to nothing about. Wasn’t he too nice?

“Something on my face?” 

Starting, Art found a small smile playing on the Guy's face. “No, it–” He rubbed the back of his head, embarrassed. “It’s just surprising how you’re helping us out so much.”

The Guy laughed in response. “Someone else would’ve too, if I hadn’t.”

Art was pretty sure they wouldn’t have if the roles were reversed, but decided to keep that to himself.

But now that he thought about it, how had the Guy known someone else hadn’t helped them already?

Sixty miles had to definitely be too much work to gamble over, no matter how nice anyone was.

Brows furrowed, Art turned to look at him again. “Hey, how'd you know we'd still be there when you came?” 

The Guy gave him a funny look, confused. 

“Patrick gave me his number before I left,” He explained, sparing a quick glance at the rear view mirror to look at him. “We kept each other updated, I thought he told you too?”

And Art should’ve seen it coming, he almost did, but Patrick was so rarely covert in his deviousness, preferring instead to display it unashamedly, that he had overlooked the possibility. 

Initial incredulity turning into something much more sordid as the seconds passed, Art felt an involuntary smile stretch his face. He turned his head to look at the boy snoring, awkwardly bent to fit in the backseat.

“Did he?”

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩｡°⋆

The sound of the shower running stopped and Patrick stepped out a minute later, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and dripping water.

Art looked away.

He didn't know where they stood, couldn't tell where they stood, and he hated it so much he wanted to scream. Earlier, Patrick had come back up to take him to their new room, back to his usual flippant self as he picked up Art's bag along with his own, silencing any protests and joking as usual.

And Art could see he was faking it plain as day, smiling with everything but his eyes. 

And Patrick, having seemingly figured out that Art had him figured out, had stopped pretending soon after.

The new room had had two beds. 

Patrick didn't look at him as he went around the room, towelling his hair and checking his phone. 

He didn't say anything when he turned off the light on his side of the room, turning to face the wall.

Art wanted to scream, if only to break the silence. How was he supposed to fix it?  

The mattress dug into his back, hard and lumpy, and Art couldn't rest his shoulder in a comfortable way no matter what he did. 

He didn't know how long passed as he laid like that, going over and over the past few days in his head; the diner, the waterfall, the giant sequoias and the tunnel view; the afternoon spent fishing, the fancy resort and the hot springs; the ridiculous amount of car trouble they had and the casino they spent an afternoon cheating in; the night sky they'd witnessed together.

Patrick had done this all for him, he knew that. And what had Art given him in return? 

Sore all over and shifting for what felt like the millionth time that night, he breathed deeply through his nose, focusing on the repetitive rhythm to distract himself from the twinges of pain spreading through his side.

The room was quiet, the whirring of the ceiling fan the only sound. 

Art could tell Patrick was awake as well, both from the sound of his breathing and just because he could.

Suddenly, he heard the sounds of sheets rustling, followed by the patter of footsteps.

“Scoot." 

Illuminated by nothing but the moonlight spilling through the open curtains, Patrick stood at the side of his bed, resting one knee on top of it. Half shadowed, Art couldn't read his eyes.

“I said,” He pushed his knee into the bed, and it pressed into the side of Art's thigh. Even with three layers between them, the touch sent a tingle through his skin, electric. “Scoot over.” 

Art swallowed, and reluctantly, shifted to the other side. 

Patrick climbed onto the bed fully, and for a moment, just sat there on his knees, staring at Art. His expression was unreadable, but Art could see the line of tension in his jaw, the way his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly.

Afraid to shatter whatever this moment was, Art breathed out, watching, waiting. 

It was a role he had almost unconsciously resigned himself to.

Eyes searching, Patrick looked at him, and there was something almost scorching about his gaze. Art swallowed and tried not to look away, like he wasn’t hoping desperately to have whatever the other was looking for.

To keep that gaze fixed on him, blistering as it was.

Voice barely above a whisper, he broke the spell of silence. “Patrick?” 

Patrick raised his hand as if to touch, and Art breathed in, wide-eyed and unblinking. 

Waiting. 

Just before his hand could make contact—when Art could almost feel the calluses of his fingers on his cheek—something stopped him.

Patrick dropped his hand. 

“When will you admit what you want?” His voice was rough, almost scratchy. “When will you ask for it?”

He sounded frustrated.

Art wanted to look away, to bury himself under the covers and hide, but something in him knew that if he did, then there would be no coming back from it. 

He would be giving this up, forfeiting the points that mattered.

But Art wasn't good with wanting. 

It was something he'd figured out long ago, when he was twelve and scrawny and laid out in his dorm bed with Patrick in his on the other side of the room, voice guiding as he showed and taught him things Art had never known before. As he made him feel things he'd never felt, before and since.

Art wasn't good with wanting, and he had made his peace with it. He was content to watch as Patrick grew, a firecracker that never stopped exploding, filling up Art and his life with colours he would never have sought himself.

And somewhere along the way, so much of him had gotten intertwined with Patrick that he couldn't make out what was him and what wasn't, and the boy had become as elementary and inherent to him as the ribs that surrounded his heart. As instinctive as hitting a ball with a racket.

Art had been content to watch. 

But what he didn't know, was that he hadn't realised just how vital Patrick was to him until he wasn't there, and suddenly Art had found himself alone on the other side of the court, waves of panic washing over him like nothing he'd ever felt as the realisation that he'd lost two people at once hit him. 

And while some part of him knew that it might not have been the case, the feeling of being left was like ice spreading through his veins, sharp and cold. It left him bitter. 

It didn't hit him until he was sitting alone in the middle of an unfamiliar dorm, the sheer void of Patrick's absence so acute it felt like someone had taken out his rib cage and left his insides bare.

Patrick was so much of who he was, and Art had never been able to figure out what to do with it, hadn't even known what to call it.

A friend? A brother? A lover? Did any of these even come close to the enormity of what he felt? 

Did it matter?

Now, as the boy he grew up with, grew up looking at, looked at him—kept looking at him, despite it all—vulnerable in a way he never let himself be seen, a realisation settled in Art's chest.

He was tired of giving things up. He wanted to win.

Art reached his hand out.

Suddenly, he felt twelve again—standing at the door to his new dorm, a lanky boy with bones and ears too big for him and dark curls as untameable as Art's own golden ones shaking his hand with a grin that promised nothing but mischief.

Patrick's eyes widened as they tracked the movement of Art's hand, flickering with so much emotion that Art wanted to slap himself in the face.

How could he have been so stupid? 

When Art's hand rested in the crook of his neck, Patrick shuddered, eyes squeezing shut. He exhaled shakily.

Feeling the tension slowly bleed out of his jaw, Art brushed his thumb over his cheek, tender.

“I'm probably in love with you.” He finally spoke, and the words felt so natural and right that he didn't know what took him so long to say it.

Patrick let out a choked laugh. “Probably?”

His whole face lit up with it, bright and vivid and Art's own cheeks were hurting with the force of his grin, a happiness so tangible that it felt like it was about to beat out of his chest. He pinched Patrick's cheek.

“Can't be too sure.” 

Patrick smiled, beautiful, the corners of his eyes and mouth crinkling as he wrapped his own hand around the one Art held over his neck. He leaned down, their noses brushing.

“Yeah, me neither.”

Art bumped their foreheads together, and their breaths mingled, one and the same. 

Not wanting to close his eyes just yet, he kept them level with Patrick, smile turning cocky. “You saying you're in love with me?” 

Patrick rolled his eyes lightly, but when he exhaled, eyes fluttering close, it looked like he was finally putting down something enormous. 

How could he not have seen it?

“I've been trying not to say it for years.” 

Before Art knew it, he was tilting his head, closing the space between them with a soft press of his lips against Patrick's.

It was gentle, almost chaste—nothing like the intensity and ferociousness of the first one they shared—but it seared into Art's lips all the same, a permanent imprint of Patrick's own, of Patrick himself.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩｡°⋆

Laying out the least dirty blanket they had found in the gas station garage, Art and Patrick laid back, arms—arm, in Art's case—crossed behind their head for support and eyes fixed on the summer sky.

It was still light out, the stars not visible just yet, but the gas station mechanic had told them to get there earlier to secure a good spot. They'd spent the better part of forty minutes trying to do just that, finally finding a place that was secluded and away from the lights of the main road.

The late evening air felt cool on his skin, and this far removed from the sounds of the main city, under the gradually darkening sky, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of them, quiet and still.

Nudging Art with his foot, Patrick glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “What're you thinking?” 

Art spoke without taking his eyes away from the sky, transfixed, and shrugged. “Nothing.”

Satisfied, Patrick smiled. “Good.”

Art huffed out a quiet chuckle, before turning his head away from above to look at Patrick.

Patrick's breath hitched in his throat.

Smiling at him under the deep oranges and reds colouring that incomprehensible vastness, golden curls wild and shining eyes kaleidoscopic, Patrick was convinced that the boy next to him was bigger than the sky that stretched over them. 

He watched, spellbound.

“You could be fire too, you know.” He spoke without thinking, sudden and sincere, and Art's eyes widened, sparkling blue. “If you let yourself.” 

For an unbroken moment, they stared at each other, only centimetres of space between them. There was a rare swirling emotion in Art's eyes that he couldn't decipher. 

Art looked away first, returning his gaze to the sky, and bit his lip. Patrick followed the movement like a moth to a flame, mind replaying the time he'd caught them between his own. 

“Patrick,” Art called out after a few moments, mouth hanging open slightly, and Patrick glanced back up to find his eyes blown wide, entranced. “Look.”

With some effort, Patrick tore his eyes away from the sight beside him, gazing at the sky. 

In the darkness that surrounded them like a blanket, the galaxy stretched out infinitely, bursts of pinks and purples spilling among the thousands—if not millions—of glittering stars looking down at them.

Turning his head, Patrick smiled at the clear awe on Art's face, and like a secret, quietly memorised every detail, storing it in the deepest cavity of his chest.

“I've never seen anything like it,” Art breathed out, voice mesmerised.

Patrick shifted to lie more comfortably, and as he looked at the universe laid bare in front of him, found that he'd much rather be on the court, hitting a ball with a racket with a certain blond head of hair next to him.