Work Text:
ISABELLE: We do love you very much
MATTHEW: I don't want to be loved very much, I just want to be loved.
But there are days in this life when you see the teeth marks of time
two lovers divide
— Interpol
2006, the morning after
Tashi is gone by the time Patrick wakes up.
He feels groggy and sore all over. It’s Art’s alarm that wakes him, shrieking through the inkey black of Patrick’s subconscious like a sharp knife. He doesn’t know how much sleep he’s actually gotten, after everything, but it definitely wasn’t enough.
All things considered, he should maybe roll out of bed. Get hydrated. Get some protein. Stretch for an extra ten minutes.
But Art isn’t awake yet. Or, maybe he is, but he’s pretending that he isn’t. He seems completely undisturbed by his ringing alarm, hasn’t moved an inch since it started and his face still soft with sleep.
Patrick’s eyes descend over Art’s body in the faint, yellow light of morning in a hotel room. His friend is pressed face down into the mattress, one arm half-hanging off the edge of the bed. Art’s back is marred with shallow lines of red. Some are worse than others. The worst one, though, is a set of four perpendicular scratches that follow down the curve of Art’s left ass cheek. Just above that, on Art’s lower back, there is a dark purple bruise. Patrick thinks about taking his thumb and pressing down on it.
But then Art is groaning, stretching and sighing deeply, arms fully extended and legs spreading further apart. Patrick watches. He says nothing.
Art looks up at Patrick from over his shoulder. He doesn’t mention that he just caught Patrick staring, just screws his face up and says, voice laced with sleep, “I guess we got some good fucking tennis to play today, huh?”
Patrick can’t resist it — he slaps Art’s ass. Art arches away from it, but the look he gives Patrick is only incredulous. “Yeah,” Patrick replies, leaning forward until he’s sort of looming over Art. “Good,” he says, and leans in closer. “Fucking,” he continues, getting closer and closer, until him and Art are nearly face to face. Patrick’s eyes flit down to watch Art’s lips part.
“Tennis,” Patrick finishes.
#
Patrick wins the match. Patrick gets Tashi’s number. Patrick and Tashi fuck.
Later, Art and Patrick fuck too.
Art is nervous, at first, though Patrick is sure he’d be unwilling to admit it. Patrick intimidates him a little on purpose, because it’s fun and it makes both their dicks hard. They keep their bottoms on for a while, after Patrick gets obsessed with the feeling of the thickness of Art’s cock through his athletic shorts. When Patrick finally takes him out, Art’s dick is much thinner than Patrick was expecting, and longer too. It tastes like salt and sweat when he gets his mouth on it. And Patrick’s not really well-versed in the art of dick sucking, but Art’s cock hits the back of his throat faster than he was expecting too. He gags a little, but it’s worth it, because that makes Art fucking whimper. Patrick does it again on purpose.
They don’t actually make it to any dick-in-ass stuff. Patrick is almost thankful for it, because he doesn’t know how they could even begin to have that particular conversation. Not right now, at least — they would eventually come to that bridge and have to cross it, though.
And Patrick was very, very interested in crossing it.
Tonight, though, all Patrick does is swallow Art’s load, and all Art does in return is give Patrick a too-rough handjob until Patrick comes all over both of their tummies. Patrick gives thought, briefly, to scooping all of his own spunk into his palm and making Art lick it off of him, but that was maybe another thing they could save for later.
Patrick’s afraid he might be going kind of crazy. All this stuff has happened, and it almost feels like there no context for any of it, but it also feels like it was sort of fucking inevitable, huh? Patrick found it hard to reconcile the two thoughts in his head, like opposite sides of the same net.
He doesn’t suppose it really matters. In the morning, he climbs into the shower next to Art. He spends the night with Tashi. It just makes sense to him, even if it really doesn’t.
#
Patrick goes down on Tashi and swears he can taste Art’s cock.
He’s absolutely positive she knows the two of them are still fucking. Patrick never gave her any reason to assume they had stopped. Art wasn’t really the type to mark someone up, selfishly preferred wearing those blemishes himself, but whenever he did Patrick only ever wore it with pride.
They also talked about Art. A lot, and even when they weren’t talking about Art it always sort of felt like he could be in the room with them, peering through the window or hiding in the closet. Sitting on the bed between them.
Art definitely also knows that Tashi and Patrick are still having sex too. That’s public knowledge at this point, though neither Patrick nor Tashi are very interested in putting any real word on it. Patrick will go pro soon, and he’ll be on tour, and Tashi and Art will be at Stanford together.
And, you see, that’s a bit of a wild card, because Patrick isn’t quite sure if he knows that Art and Tashi are still fucking too. Maybe that makes him the least observant of the three of them, the most self-obsessed. But, then again, it wouldn’t really change anything between the three of them, would it? So, ultimately, did it matter if Patrick knew or not?
He couldn’t help but wonder what sort of stuff they’d be getting into together at college, without Patrick around.
2007, argentina
It turns out that tour fucking sucks.
Okay, no, it doesn’t suck. Patrick is good at fucking tennis, and everything is fun if you’re the person winning. Some people might say there’s something to be learned in every loss too, but those people are usually losers.
It’s everything else that sucks. It’s the food, and the jet lag, and the long days that end in short nights, with ice baths and lots of stretching. Falling asleep in pain and waking up in pain too. It’s the fact that he doesn’t have any fucking friends; that the only people whose company he really enjoys are thousands of miles away at any given time. And they're both in the same place, of all the places in the world each of them could possibly be.
Together, they remain, and Patrick is everywhere but with them.
He jerks off a lot. It’s basically the only guaranteed way he can put himself to sleep, he’s always too keyed up after a day full of tennis. Or the day after a full day of tennis, or the day before. Sometimes when he jerks off he’s still thinking about tennis, actually. It’s always mostly the same when he does; Art across the court from him, and Art returns every single ball, and Patrick can feel each and every bead of sweat that travels down his body. His mouth tastes like salt and like come, like Art’s favourite type of gum and Tashi’s perfume. And he and Art are playing tennis, and sometimes Art is Tashi but he’s still somehow Art, and sometimes Tashi is Tashi but Patrick is Art, and sometimes it is all three of them, somehow, in a version of this universe that would defy the laws of physics. When Patrick finally makes himself come, it’s like waking from a dream.
Other times when Patrick jerks off, he’s on the phone with one of them. It depends on the time difference. Art likes to talk late at night and Tashi prefers early morning. Patrick accommodates both their tastes, not for any particular reason other than he doesn’t think he has much of a choice. He could convince Art to change their routine. He could not convince Tashi of anything no matter how hard he tried.
Him and Art don’t really talk about it while it’s happening. Make no mistake, like, each of them knows what the other is doing, obviously. There’s no mistaking it. Art could try and be discreet but he just can’t help himself, not when they’re on the phone together. It’s almost like a performance, like showmanship. Anything you can do I can do better. It is always sort of a competition, too, in a lot of ways. Patrick’s not always interested in winning. He guesses Art would probably rather die than lose, so Patrick usually ends up letting him win. It is sort of fun though, sometimes, to switch it up. Art gets kind of quiet and embarrassed afterwards, and Patrick likes it, mostly because he knows that Art likes it too.
That’s the thing about him and Art: they understand each other well, they’ve known each other for so long. Sometimes it doesn’t have to be about what’s being said, sometimes it can just be about what you both know the other knows is happening.
Tashi is much different. With Tashi, it’s all about the talking. The two of them couldn’t stop talking if they tried, bouncing back and forth with flawless rhythm. Even when they are speaking over each other, they can hear every word. Like they exist not on opposite ends of the conversation, but on the same path forward. It reminds Patrick of playing doubles with Art.
They talk about Art, too. Of course. Patrick and Art talk about Tashi, too. It’s usually a great way to make Art come, talking about Tashi. Almost pavlovian, in the hottest way that could be. Patrick was pretty sure Tashi exploited a similar weakness in him, one he couldn’t really make himself feel that embarrassed about.
Sometimes Patrick wonders if Art’s in the room, when he and Tashi are on the phone talking about him. It becomes sort of a fantasy. Patrick imagines the other side of the conversation, with Tashi slumped down in a chair, listening to Patrick stroke his dick. And then, Art sitting across the room from her. Tashi watching Art stroke his own shit, him listening to just her side of the conversation, and whatever obscene noises Art might be able to make out from over the phone.
Patrick never asks her if he’s there. He never asks Art if Tashi is in the room either.
#
Argentina is a good tournament for Patrick.
After he wins, he treats himself to slightly too much alcohol at the hotel bar. It’s not the most fulfilling celebration, but it does loosen the knot of loneliness in his stomach, which is good enough for him. He looks down at his hands — laments how many times he’s touched his dick with them since the tour started, and how his own hands are the only ones who have done that since then too.
Getting laid would probably fix him.
He’s not overly picky about it; when Patrick decides it’s happening, a woman down the bar from him has already been openly staring for a few minutes. Patrick thinks she might be a few years older than him, for no other reason than the way she carries herself. She doesn’t remind him of Tashi, per se, but the similarities exist.
He kisses her at the bar. She takes him up to her hotel room. In the elevator, she asks him about tennis. He tells her, it’s more like a relationship, like when you’re playing tennis with some one good, and you’re playing really good tennis, you could be fucking them. She smiles at him, and Patrick parts her thighs with his left hand.
It’s nearly 5 AM when Patrick sneaks out of the woman's hotel room, wearing his shorts with his shirt held in his grip. He pulls it back on in the hallway, before he rides the elevator two floors down and back to his own room.
It’s nearly 5 AM in Buenos Aires. In Stanford, it’s just about one o’clock in the morning.
It’s not entirely surprising when Patrick’s phone rings and the caller I.D. reads Art’s name. Patrick winces, thinking about tugging on his raw ass dick. There’s something particularly skeezy about it — making himself come on the phone with Art, so soon after coming in some stranger's bed. Patrick can’t resist it, though, not when he loves the way Art sounds while he’s fucking up into his own fist so much.
“Called to congratulate me?” Patrick answers, in lieu of any sort of greeting. His eyebrows knit, however, when Art doesn’t answer. Patrick wonders, for a moment, if the connection is spotty. It is a long distance call. “Hello?” Patrick says this time, “Art? Can you hear me?”
Art’s answer isn’t anything close to what Patrick was anticipating. At least, the high-pitched whine that comes through the receiver sounds like Art. Patrick likes to think he’s gotten to the point where he can recognize that sound pretty well.
“Oh,” Patrick smirks. Despite everything, he can already feel his cock thickening up. He readjusts himself through his shorts. “You get started without me?”
But still: Art does not answer. Patrick listens harder, and it’s then that he notices the other noises coming through the phone speaker. Noises Art was making, not with his mouth and his throat but with the other parts of his body, and sounds that couldn’t have been coming from Art at all, or not just Art by himself. There is a long, low moan that sounds closer to the phone than Art did, and that’s when Patrick starts to put the pieces together.
Tashi. It was Art that had called him, but it was Tashi by the phone.
The confirmation makes a bolt of lighting shoot through Patrick’s belly, hot and quick. It goes all the way down to his cock, which is now tenting his shorts from how hard he is. He imagines himself in the room. He imagines Tashi straddling Art’s hips, the grip of Art’s hands into the fleshiest part of her thighs. He imagines Art with his head thrown back, Tashi’s mouth on the spot at the base of his throat. He imagines his own hands descending the warm planes of Tashi’s bare shoulders, he imagines his own hand fisted into Art’s hair. Had he and Tashi discovered all the same places to put their hands on Art’s body? Did Art’s mouth travel the same distances of Tashi’s body that Patrick’s had? Had their experiences been similar, could they have somehow been totally the same? A copy of a copy of a copy.
The three of them hadn’t been together again since the first time. Patrick missed it, of course he missed it, but there were advantages to this chosen way of living. In the version of this they were practicing right now, Patrick could be all of them and each of them and none of them all at once. He was in the room with them and he wasn’t, he existed as a concept to each of them and both of them at the same time, separate but the same, different but not entirely so. They were the same people, but they were different, but then it sometimes didn’t matter either way.
Patrick listens to his girlfriend fuck his boyfriend. Not really, actually, but whatever. It was funny to think of it that way. He is jealous of her, of him, but then he also isn’t jealous at all. The sun at the center and the planets that orbit it; they exist within and without each other. Yes and no. Hello and goodbye. Welcome back and see you next time.
Somewhere in the haze of the night; they all come once, some of them at least twice, and eventually Patrick falls asleep.
The next morning, Patrick buys a plane ticket to California.
california
Patrick makes it to Stanford the following Thursday. He goes to see Tashi first. She makes him get down on his knees at the foot of her bed and eat her out while she sits on the edge of it. He moans into her wetness, smeared across his mouth and chin. After Patrick makes her come, Tashi pushes him away with her foot against his sternum.
“I have practice,” she tells Patrick, who is still kneeling, shoulders slumped, on her dorm room floor, his dick rock hard and in nothing but his underwear.
He’s standing right outside Tashi’s door when he calls Art to ask him what he’s doing.
“Can I fuck you?” Patrick asks. This time he’s in Art’s dorm, pushing his knee between Art’s legs. “Like, for real, I mean. I wanna be in you.”
Art makes a face. Patrick pinches both of Art’s cheeks with one hand, pulls him forward, kisses Art so hard their noses are mashed together, and then bites down on Art’s bottom lip.
“Don’t make that face,” Patrick pulls away to speak. He’s still holding onto Art’s face. “Worried you’ll like it too much?”
Art scoffs. “No,” he answers, “I just think it’s funny you think you’re the one getting in me.”
Patrick scoffs, raising one eyebrow, finally dropping his grip on Art. “Oh, is that it,” Patrick’s voice is teasing. His crotch is pressed right up against Art’s, both of their dicks thick and hot. “You’re gonna fuck me, Art? Gonna put your fingers in my ass and open me up so I can take your dick?”
Art looks less confident than he did a moment ago. His dick isn’t any less hard, though.
“It’s not like fucking a girl, y’know. You’re not gonna make me wet,” Patrick chuckles, “but, well, I guess you’re used to that.”
“Fuck you,” Art wriggles a little, pinned between Patrick and the mattress. The friction makes Patrick’s eyelashes flutter for a second, almost something but not quite enough of it.
“Yeah, baby boy,” Patrick taps Art’s cheek, “that’s what we’re talking about here. So can you do it or not?”
Gun to his head, Patrick could admit it: he didn’t really care how it ended up happening, just wished for it to happen at all. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter. Gay sex with his childhood best friend was always going to be gay sex with his childhood best friend, no matter how you sliced it.
It seems like maybe Art isn’t willing to admit that yet. All of that, though, and what Art ends up saying is, “whatever.” He ends up saying, “we can do what you want.”
Life was always better when you felt like you were winning.
So, that’s the truth: Patrick got inside Art first. Eventually, Art would get inside Patrick too, but that would come later. Patrick would hold onto it more as a private victory, that he got between Art’s legs first. Kinda stupid, but whatever. Who was he to judge his own thoughts so harshly?
Art likes it more than Patrick is expecting. And, for the record, Patrick fully expected Art to like it. But Art, like, kind of loves it. He moans for it, begs with high, tinny noises instead of words. Patrick gives it to him good, because who wouldn’t? It was like playing tennis against each other, except instead of from across the court, Patrick was looking at Art from above him, pushing into him, and pressing his thumb hard against Art’s collarbone. Physical therapy. Press until it hurts.
Here was the thing Patrick was learning about Art from having sex with him: Art is the type of person who wants to be told what he wants. He wants to be told to want things so he can feel guilty about wanting them, about needing to be given permission to want them. He likes it; the shame, the embarrassment. It makes perfect sense, of course. Art wants both of them, him and Tashi, and they both love to tell him what to do.
Well, Tashi likes it for the sake of it. Patrick might like it more because of how much Art likes it.
#
Afterwards, Patrick sits naked in Art’s desk chair and reads the spines of the books on Art’s shelf. His eyes flit over titles, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, The Inner Game of Tennis: The Classic Guide to the Mental Side of Peak Performance.
“Patrick,” he can hear Art call his name but it doesn’t register properly in his brain. Art’s voice passes over Patrick like a wave, and Patrick keeps reading titles. What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Days of Grace: A Memoir.
Art calls his name again, “Patrick.”
Patrick thinks of the shape of his name when it’s coming from Art’s mouth, of all the different ways it can sound. He thinks of the way Tashi says his name, the same letters and syllables with a different voice. He thinks of the way they might say each other’s names. He thinks of the way he says both of their names.
Art, Tashi, Patrick, Tashi, Art, Patrick, Art, Tashi, Patrick, Patrick, Patrick . . .
“Patrick!” Art’s tone finally cuts through Patrick’s thoughts, crossing into his consciousness. “Can you hear me? Or have you burned through all your brain cells trying to read?”
Patrick turns towards him. Art’s sitting on his bed, legs crossed, in nothing but in his underwear. His hair messy, curled around his ears and wild across the top. Patrick remembers running his hands through it, while he was coaxing Art’s mouth further down his cock, opening up Art’s throat around the girth of it.
“I already know you’re smarter than me, Art,” Patrick responds, mouth quirked up at the corners. He thinks about crawling over to Art, of putting spit and teeth marks all over Art’s tiny pink nipples. “No need to rub it in.”
“Someone needs to keep you humble.”
“Yeah,” Patrick rolls the word over in his mouth, smiling. “You keep me real humble, baby boy.” Art doesn’t blush, not fully, but his chest colours with a splotchy redness. “Well, you were begging me for my attention. What did you want to say?”
Art is quiet. Patrick waits. Patrick has always been good at waiting for Art. He’s been practicing it for almost as long as he’s been practicing tennis. But Art just sits there, thinking so hard that Patrick can see it plainly on his face.
It starts to make the room fill up, heavy almost like humidity. The sun has fallen far enough down the horizon that it’s splitting the bedroom with shadows. Art is caged by the slats of his window. Patrick’s palms feel sweaty. Art still isn’t saying anything, but he’s got this look in his eye. Something fragile, something frayed. There’s this knot that starts to build up in Patrick’s throat.
And so he ruins it. So, he says, “trying to figure out how to ask me to suck you off?” So he saves them both.
“Yeah,” Art admits. “Yeah. That was it.”
Patrick knows he’s lying. Patrick knows that Art knows that Patrick knows he’s lying.
Sometimes it doesn’t have to be about what’s being said.
Patrick spends the rest of his time in California with Tashi.
spain
There are certain realizations Patrick eventually starts to come to.
First, Tashi is probably his girlfriend. When his parents ask him about her — and they don’t much, they barely even call at all — that’s what Patrick calls her. When they ask about Art they ask about him by name, so Patrick doesn’t have to refer to him as anything.
Second, Art doesn’t really call as much these days. There had been a time, for a while, where Art called more than Tashi did. Now the opposite is true. Patrick thinks about asking after Art, sometimes, when he’s on the phone with Tashi. He’s not sure what kind of answer she’d even be willing to offer him.
Patrick thinks about Art, though. He thinks about Art all the time. Every opponent Patrick plays wears Art’s face at some point; like when the sweat gets into his eyes and starts to blur his vision, or when the waves of heat beat so hard off the court they warp the air. Strangers in the audience also wear Art’s face, and some of them wear Tashi’s too. He is far from them in no other way besides physical. They haunt him, like a pair of restless ghosts. Possessing him, changing shape.
Patrick thinks about the ways Art’s eyes screw up when he’s coming, his face all vulnerable and open. Patrick thinks about the time when Art’s mouth had parted in orgasmic pleasure and Patrick hadn’t missed the opportunity to gather a big glob of spit, to drop it right onto Art’s tongue. “Swallow it,” Patrick had told him, and Art had looked panicked, for just a moment, before he obeyed. In the memory, Patrick’s voice sounds almost like Tashi’s when he says it, and Patrick can feel the phantom weight of Tashi’s fingers in his mouth, pressing down on his tongue.
Patrick doesn’t play as well as he did in Argentina when he’s in Spain. Tashi calls him the day after he falls out of the tournament.
“What the fuck was that,” is the first thing she asks him.
california, again
Despite everything, nothing feels any different when Patrick lays his eyes on Art from across the court again.
They fall into it, like they couldn’t help it if they tried. Art runs and Patrick gives chase. Art squeals, making a fool of himself, and Patrick tackles him, laughing as they both end up on the ground. Art’s shirt rides up, and Patrick touches the skin of his hip, fleeting but true.
“You played like shit in Spain,” Art teases him. Tashi said the same thing, but the tone of voice was entirely different. Tashi was digging her knuckles into the muscle. Art was ruffling Patrick’s hair.
“You wouldn’t know what playing well looks like even if it hit you in the face with a tennis racket,” Patrick retorts. Art knows he’s joking. Patrick would never say something like that to Tashi.
In the dining hall, Patrick pulls Art’s stool closer. Their knees press together under the countertop. Patrick leans in close, keeping himself steady with his fingers digging into Art’s thigh.
“So,” Patrick hums, wiping the sugar off his hands against Art’s shorts. He drops his voice to a whisper, “did you miss my cock?”
Art looks over his shoulder at the group of students sitting at the table across the room, quickly. It’s clear they are consumed with their own conversation, thankfully, and Art turns back to Patrick so he can punch him in the shoulder.
“You’re always so embarrassed to admit you like it,” Patrick presses on, uncaring of his volume when speaking in innuendo. “But you always seem to enjoy it so much. You always beg me for it.”
“And right now I’m begging you to shut the fuck up, Patrick.” But Art loves it, Patrick knows he does. Later, Patrick will remind him of his conversation. Later, when they’re both naked and sweaty, Patrick will remind Art of how embarrassed he was, to be confronted with the reality of how much he liked Patrick’s cock, how he liked the way Patrick would give him every inch of it. Patrick’s toes curled, and it wasn’t just because of the imagined future. It was also because of the way Art was looking in this very moment, lips slightly parted, the highest points of his cheeks pink. Pink like his tongue, pink like his nipples, pink like the tip of his dick.
Maybe Patrick would let Art fuck him later. Finally let him experience it, the tight, white-hot feeling of it. The friction of it, the feeling of stuffing someone full. Those were Patrick’s favorite parts, anyway. Maybe Art would get something else out of it.
Yeah. They hadn’t done that yet. Patrick could probably make that happen.
#
Art never fucks him. Instead, he and Tashi fight, gnashing teeth and ugly words. Patrick can admit he maybe said some things he maybe shouldn’t have, but only to himself and no one else. Patrick skips Tashi’s match, leaves the seat next to Art in the stands empty and aching. Patrick is eating a stack of pancakes at IHOP when he finds out about Tashi’s injury.
Instead, Tashi and Art yell him out of the room. Instead, Patrick falls asleep in a hotel room, naked beneath the top sheet that's draped across his hips, next to a stranger he doesn’t care much to remember the name of.
2006, the night of
Patrick realizes he’s kissing Art before Art realizes he’s kissing Patrick.
It was already obvious to him, the differences in the way Tashi kissed versus the way Art did. It was always Art pulling back, asking to be chased, hoping to be pursued. Tashi stood her ground more firmly. She matched Patrick’s rhythm, threw it back at him well enough to nearly throw him off balance.
So when Tashi pulled away, extracted herself from the space between the two of them, Patrick felt her absence immediately. But it was still so good kissing Art, just like Patrick always thought it would be. Art had this soft, pretty mouth, just begging for some teeth. This unblemished, porcelain skin just begging for someone to mark it up.
The truth is: Patrick’s been thinking about fucking Art basically since they hit puberty. Or, maybe not quite in the explicit sense that those words implied. Not at first, anyway. The feelings existed — from the moment Patrick had taught Art how to jerk off, or maybe from before that, even — but they took their time revealing themselves, unraveling slowly until Patrick began to better understand them. What he had landed on in recent years was this: he was not entirely straight, and he was not entirely uninterested in seeing his best friend's dick in a context besides an after-practice shower.
And now here they were, with Patrick sliding his tongue along Art’s, across all of his teeth, with Tashi Duncan pressed between them. Two teenage wet dreams for the price of one.
When Tashi speaks, a simple little okay, Art pulls away, and he’s looking at Patrick like he had no idea it was Patrick’s tongue he was sucking on the whole time.
“I thought you guys said I wouldn't be a homewrecker,” Tashi says, smirking, leaning back propped up on her elbows.
“We’ve never — that’s never happened before,” Art insists. Patrick is watching Art. Art is watching Tashi. Tashi watches them both. “Honestly. It was just the, uh,” Art clears his throat. “Just the jerking off thing. For real.”
Tashi is silent for a moment, humming like she’s thinking really hard about something. “Would you do it for me right now?” She asks neither of them in particular, both of them at the same time. “Jerk off, I mean.”
Patrick's eyes dip to the obvious bulge in Art’s boxers, then back up to his friend's face. “Bet you he’d come first,” Patrick says.
Art’s head swivels towards Patrick fast, looking almost betrayed by the sentiment. Patrick swears, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Art’s dick twitch.
“Okay,” Tashi nods, sliding further up the length of the bed, making herself comfortable against the mess of pillows at the head of it. “Whoever lasts the longest wins. And whoever wins gets to taste my pussy first.”
Patrick lasts the longest. He’s granted the exponential privilege of watching Art shoot all over his own hand, thighs and abs. Tashi grants Patrick even more pleasure, then, she swipes through the mess Art’s made of himself, and feeds it to Patrick off the pads of her fingers.
He eats Tashi’s pussy like a champion because that’s his prize. Patrick would never leave Art forgotten, though, reaching blindly across bare thighs until Tashi’s own hand helps Patrick’s circle Art’s dick. Patrick slurps on Tashi’s pussy loud — like he’s a man who has spent his life in the desert — and he runs his thumb back and forth over the slit at the head of Art’s cock.
They must think they have Patrick wrapped around their collective pretty little finger. Patrick feels a deep sense of control anyway; they are both perfectly at his mercy, and they’ll both be begging him to come.
“You see how my dick is bigger than his?” Patrick lifts his head from between Tashi’s legs to say it, squeezing his fist around the base of Art’s cock to emphasize his point. Maybe Art would have responded with something clever, if Patrick’s words and Patrick's hand didn’t make him choke out a long moan.
“You’re already sucking my clit,” Tashi admonishes. “No need to gloat.”
“Oh, I can gloat and suck clit at the same time,” Patrick refutes. “As you can see, I’m very good at multitasking.” To prove his point, Patrick presses his thumb at the spot right behind Art’s balls, just as he brings his mouth back to the wetness between Tashi’s thigh. Art whines so hard his hips lift off the mattress and Tashi sighs, much more quiet, and slides her hand into Patrick’s hair.
#
Ultimately, Tashi doesn’t let either of them fuck her.
(She would save this honour, ultimately, for Patrick. Another private victory for him. It was so funny, the way he got to be inside both of them before the other did.)
But she does let Art go down on her too, and it is ultimately Art’s tongue in her cunt and Patrick’s fingers circling her clit that makes her come. She lets Patrick jerk himself and Art off, in tandem, onto her stomach, and it’s only after everyone’s come and gotten cleaned up that Tashi speaks again.
“This was fun,” she tells them, zipping up her pink sweater and tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You guys are fun.”
“You should stay,” Patrick tells her.
Art echoes the sentiment. “Yeah,” he says, “you should stay.”
“Why? So I can sleep squished between the two of you on a bed that’s already too small? Don’t you boys have a match to play tomorrow.”
Patrick shrugs. “You should stay,” he repeats, then adds on, “so I can wake you up with my mouth tomorrow.”
Tashi stands, fully clothed, in front of the two of them. The two of them, still naked, still sitting on their messy bed. Her hip is cocked and her arms are crossed. She kisses her teeth.
“You make a compelling argument,” Tashi acquiesces. Patrick’s not sure they’ve won yet. Not until she’s crawling back onto the bed, sliding between the two of them like water, like the slow curl of the tide. Creeping and creeping, something you don’t realize is dangerous until it’s too late. What’s that anecdote — about frogs and hot water?
Patrick is, ultimately, not sure how long she stays. When he wakes, Tashi is gone, him and Art left behind.
2011, atlanta
Art fucks just like he plays tennis: sharp, fast and precise.
Patrick plays tennis frayed at the edges. He’s not so much interested in technique as he is in disruption, in winning for the sake of it. Patrick fucks like he’s got something to prove, like he’s testing his own limits and the limits of the body joined with his.
If Patrick is good at one thing, it’s tennis. If Patrick is good at two things, it’s tennis and fucking.
What’s funny is just how clear it all it is to Patrick: that Art’s adjusted his technique, it seems, to fill the role in his and Tashi’s sex life that Patrick left behind in his absence. It’s been years since he’s spoken to either of them, and yet Patrick’s been with them this whole time. Could he be felt by them, in the movement of Art’s hips? Could imagination fill the gaps, proof of concept in the way Tashi might wrap her legs around Art’s waist and pull him in as close as she can?
It’s kind of flattering. Art fucks Tashi the way Patrick used to fuck Tashi. Art fucks Tashi the way that Patrick used to fuck him.
And now: Art fucks Patrick the way Patrick fucked Tashi, the way that Patrick has fucked Art.
Full fucking circle. How fucking poetic.
#
In truth: Patrick goes to Tashi first, and then Art comes to Patrick. Action and reaction. Serve, and then return.
That’s Patrick's first indication that things may have really changed, in the years since he’s seen them last. Back in the day, it was always Art who would rather be chased. Patrick had no preference — chaser or chased, predator or prey — so he did whatever Art liked.
But still, again: Patrick goes to Tashi first.
Seeing her through the glass of the window is almost like starring in a mirror. Patrick can see the phantom edges of his reflection imposed across the lines of Tashi’s own form. They could be the same person, in certain lights. They could be total strangers in another.
In this light, he is Patrick and she is Tashi, and it is late at night, and Patrick’s body leads before his brain catches up. Then, he’s standing in front of Tashi. Then, Tashi is looking right up at him. Tashi is wearing Art’s grandmother's ring.
It does make Patrick sort of sad. That they never told him they were engaged. That Art never told Patrick about his grandmother dying. Patrick remembers her, in little bits of memory strewn across a lifetime of knowing Art Donaldson. She had sent Art to practice, once, with a Tupperware full of cut up watermelon. They ate every single slice between the two of them and it was so juicy it dripped down their chins and onto their shirts. Patrick remembers Art’s face, warm with sun and peppered with freckles, and the smile he was wearing when he laughed at the mess on Patrick’s chin.
Patrick wonders what else he might’ve missed, or what they might have kept from him. It reminds him of when he was on tour and they were both at Stanford. The loneliness is familiar. Feels the way getting a hug from someone at a funeral would.
There’s a bathroom in the hotel lobby. Patrick presses Tashi up against the row of sinks in the ladies’ room and kisses her. She tastes different. She tastes like Art. Patrick licks into Tashi’s mouth like he’s trying to drink in Art right from her.
He tells her, “you taste like him,” right up against her ear, sinking his teeth into the lobe.
“He tastes like you,” Tashi replies and it makes Patrick’s dick jump in his underwear. He resist the urge to ask Tashi, do him and I taste like each other?
Patrick imagines the future that might have been, had that night in the hotel not transpired the way he did. Would Art have pulled away from kissing him, pulled away from Patrick on the bed, re-erected the boundary that had been crossed through the press of their mouths? Patrick is sure he would have still won the match. He’s sure he still would have ended up with Tashi’s number, would still have ended up inside her room, inside her bed, inside of her. Could more have been gained? Could more have been lost? They already both acted like Patrick was dead. Would that, could that, have been any different, if the things that happened years ago were different too?
Well, no sense in dwelling on it. The world keeps spinning. Doors open, then they close, then maybe they open again, without you noticing at all. All of it matters, but then again, none of it does.
Tashi slips her fingers into Patrick’s mouth, pushes against his cheeks, against his tongue, against the gag reflex at the back of his throat. Patrick sucks obediently and, okay, sue him, he’s thinking about what it’s like sucking Art’s cock. What it would feel like if Tashi slipped her fingers passed Patrick’s lips while Art was down his throat. The stretch, the burn, of the sharp twinge in his belly brought on by a challenge, of swallowing everything, swallowing both of them. Keeping parts of them inside him forever.
When Tashi pulls her fingers out, she uses Patrick’s spit to make the slide of her hand over his cock easier. She gets him hard, even harder than he was, though that barely seems possible. Patrick reaches down, slides his hand into Tashi’s panties, and feels how wet she is there. He presses his fingers past the slight resistance of her cunt, imagines what Tashi might feel like if Art was stretching her there at the same time.
Patrick fucks her messy against the counter top, with his pants around his ankles and Tashi’s underwear caught around her thighs. He gets water soaked into his shirt and his calves scream with the effort, but it’s all worth it for the breathless noise that catches in the back of Tashi’s throat when she comes. Patrick shoots inside of her, can’t find it in himself to tame the compulsion to fuck his come into her just a little. Then Patrick drops to his knees and licks it out of her, lapping at Tashi with long, rhythmic movements of his tongue.
He gets every last drop of himself, and wonders if Art will still be able to taste Patrick inside of Tashi later.
#
Patrick is sitting at the hotel bar when Art finds him.
Tashi rode the elevator back up to the room she was sharing with Art hours ago. Before she did, she pulled Art’s grandma’s ring out of the back pocket of Patrick’s jeans, the place where Patrick had stashed it after he pulled it off with her finger with his teeth. He felt guilty about it, for just a second, but then the weight of it there sort of felt good. A treasure, a trinket, a token of affection.
Time passes in a slow crawl while Patrick takes sips of liquor poured over ice straight from the bottle. By the time Art is finally coming towards him from across the room, Patrick is drunk enough that it makes his heart pound. Like he was in flight or fight, but the ultimate decision of it wasn’t Patrick’s to make.
He’s not sure if Art’s going to punch him or kiss him.
Inevitably, Art does neither. What he does instead is slide onto the stool at the bar next to Patrick and order a beer. Patrick says nothing. For a long moment, Art doesn’t say anything either. He doesn’t even look at Patrick. Art's eyes are fixed directly ahead of him, right up until the bartender returns with an open beer and places it on the counter in front of him. After his first sip, Art's eyes flick to look at Patrick.
Patrick has been unabashedly watching Art the whole time.
Art swallows his mouthful of beer. “Never expected to find you here.”
“What?” Patrick replies, “in Atlanta?”
They fall so easily back into it, so trusting and stupid.
Art doesn’t dignify Patrick’s annoying question with an answer. That’s how Art feels like he’s won an argument with Patrick. It’s how Patrick knows he’s won an argument with Art.
Art finishes his whole beer in two long pulls, his hand fisted around the neck of it. Patrick is intimately acquainted with that grip; around a tennis racket, around Art’s own cock, around Patrick’s. Patrick could recognize the fucking feel of it in a dark room. There’s not a single part of his body that doesn’t know what it feels like to have part of Art pressed against it.
Except —
When Art finally fucks Patrick — and this is honest to god, dick in ass fucking — it’s a totally new experience. Patrick has never had the pleasure of this, exactly, but he knows what Art fucks like. Or, he knew what Art had fucked like. It wasn’t like this. It wouldn’t have mattered back then, who was filling which role, who was filling which, ahem, well, hole. Sex with Art would never have been like this.
Art digs his fingers into Patrick’s flesh like he wants to rip Patrick apart and crawl inside him. He presses Patrick back against the mattress and he bears down hard on Patrick's chest, shallowing his breath just a little bit. Art knocks both of Patrick’s legs apart with one of his, being straight up fucking mean when he slides his knee back and forth across Patrick’s groin.
Patrick disappears for five years and the world goes fucking topsy-turvy.
“What the fuck happened to you?” He asks Art breathlessly, the words falling out of him like candy out of a quarter machine.
Art doesn’t answer the question. Instead, Art says, “I’m gonna fuck you.”
So Patrick says, “okay, baby boy.”
Art only preps him with spit but it’s because Patrick’s fucking impatient. He can’t stand it, having Art’s fingers inside of him when he could taking Art’s dick. Art’s pace is relentless but exact, if maybe a little bit too practiced. Regardless, Patrick’s got nothing to complain about. Art looks him right in the eyes when Patrick spits into his own hand and rubs it all over Art’s chest, before reaching down to fuck up into his own fist until he comes. Patrick lets Art win this time.
After Art blows his load, he pulls out, and Patrick reaches down and uses two fingers to push Art’s come back inside him.
“You’re fucking gross,” Art tells him, chest heaving while his spent dick wilts between his thighs.
“You like me gross,” Patrick returns, and then he surges forward quickly to bite the sharp edge of Art’s jaw. “We’re your fucking wet dream.”
Neither of them say anything about Patrick’s choice of pronoun.
2019
Of the three of them, Patrick is the worst at tennis.
He used to be better than Art. He was never better than Tashi. Patrick had more raw talent than Art, but Art’s years of refining his craft with the help of his wife has kept Art well-oiled, operating with the intention of peak performance.
Patrick won because otherwise it wasn’t fun playing; Art wanted to win so bad he was afraid of it. Tashi just won.
It didn’t matter. Between the three of them, Patrick always felt like he was always the one winning.
the year before, sweden
Here is where Art gains an upper-hand: in October, Patrick plays tennis in Sweden. The same week, Art flies out to Stockholm to shoot a Calvin Klein ad while he’s still recovering from his injury. Tashi stays home with her daughter.
In a dark hotel room in Sweden, Patrick presses his fingers to the puckered skin on Art’s shoulder. The scars are still bright pink.
“You’ll play again,” Patrick says, not a question but an assumed truth.
Art turns to look at him. They’re both sitting on the bed, naked with their legs crossed. Not long ago, the sun was still coming through the curtains and into the room, and Art was on his knees with his mouth wide open around Patrick’s cock. In the time since, the sun has disappeared completely. They still haven’t turned any lights on.
“I’ll play again,” Art parrots, and this time it’s an affirmation.
Patrick kisses him. Like it’s a congratulations, maybe, or at the very least something that brings Patrick some relief. The world isn’t the same for them if Art isn’t playing tennis. It’s at the apex of all of this: without it at the centre, none of this would have happened.
Patrick isn’t sure why he asks it. Maybe he’s feeling nostalgic, or maybe he’s feeling lonely. “Does your wife know you’re with me?”
“I haven’t told her,” it’s only the fact that Art is so honest that surprises Patrick. “If that’s what you’re asking me.”
“Will you?”
Art doesn’t reply at first. His and Patrick’s faces are so close together Patrick’s chin is almost leaning on Art’s shoulder. Patrick’s eyes find themselves drawn to Art’s mouth, and when Patrick flicks his eyes back up for a brief moment, he finds Art looking down at his mouth too.
It’s Art who pushes his body into Patrick’s this time. This type of occurrence is rare. Art was never the instigator, at least not between himself and Patrick. No, Art liked to be treated like he needed to be convinced, like he was always about to turn and run away.
He never did, though. Patrick knew he wouldn’t.
Art’s nose bumps against Patrick’s as they break apart. “I haven’t decided yet,” Art says, finally. “But it’s not a secret.”
“Nothing between the three of us could ever be a secret.”
match point, new york
Tashi evens up the score again, when she lets Patrick fuck her in the backseat of his car. Outside, the wind whistles high and shrill.
“He told me, by the way,” Tashi says when Patrick drops her off down the street from her hotel. “About Stockholm.”
“It wasn’t a secret,” Patrick tells her, Art’s words said with his voice.
Tashi tilts her head. “I know it wasn’t,” and then she slams Patrick’s car door.
Patrick thinks about waiting an hour and then going inside and sitting at the hotel bar.
He doesn’t, ultimately. He finds he kind of prefers the symmetry.
#
It begins in a familiar way: Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig on either side of Tashi Duncan, sitting on the edge of a bed.
Lots of things are different now, though. They all have scars that weren’t there before. Tashi’s hair is shorter, and so is Art’s. Patrick doesn’t like it, finds he can’t grab a good enough handful of it to pull — just how he knows Art likes it, which makes Patrick like it too. They start to almost meld together; Patrick’s mouth on Tashi’s neck with his palm pressed against Art’s chest, Tashi’s teeth in Art’s lip while her fingers play with the hairs at the back of Patrick’s neck, Art’s hand reaching across Tashi’s thighs to feel Patrick’s hard cock through his pants. Patrick starts to lose track of who is touching him where, whose mouth it is trailing spit down his chest and whose mouth is moving against his. They are each other and they are themselves and they are all of them all at once. It doesn’t matter. No use drawing lines where there are none.
First, it’s Patrick who fucks Art. Tashi lays Art down against the mattress and pillows and peppers kisses across his chest, while Patrick grips Art’s hip with one hand and the base of his own cock with the other. Patrick takes his time sliding in on purpose.
Patrick has always thought that Art would like this — always thought Art would like it if Tashi watched while Patrick fucked him. It was a part of himself Patrick was sure Art would never show her otherwise. He didn't trust those deep vulnerabilities with her, not before now. He always trusted Patrick with that kind of vulnerability, though. Luckily, one of the best things about Art is this: he just has to be told he shouldn’t want something and it makes him want it even more.
Tashi asks them questions, while Patrick slides his dick in and out of her husband.
“Has he ever done this to you?”
“Just once,” Patrick answers, panting with exertion. Art is all but non-verbal, chewing on his bottom lip.
“When?”
“Atlanta.”
“Ah,” Tashi says, like the answer was obvious. “Atlanta. That makes sense.”
“He likes it like this better,” Patrick tells her, though he’s not sure if that’s true. He doesn’t really care, honestly. He’ll take whatever Art wants from him in stride. It’s not like it ever feels like losing. Patrick gives Art’s cheek a couple of light taps while he fucks him, says, “isn’t that right, Art,” and watches Art’s chest get splotchy with red and knows that Art’s dick just twitched.
When Patrick feels his orgasm cresting inside him like a smooth wave, he pulls out and comes across Art’s stomach. Tashi tells him to clean it up, so Patrick obey, leaning forward so he can lick his load off of Art’s abs. When Patrick sits back up, Tashi pulls him forward and kisses him.
Art’s dick is still hard, aching and leaking precome between them. Tashi pulls her panties down her legs and kicks them off. Patrick wants to reach out and touch her, but she’s already moving him out of the way so she can straddle Art’s hips and sit on his dick. Art huffs out air like someone punched him in the gut, and when Tashi starts to roll her hips the noises Art's making ramp up into high-pitched whines.
Patrick is quick to reposition himself, coming to kneel behind Tashi, wrapping his arms around her and sucking marks into her shoulders and neck. He plays with her tits, runs his hand down the center of her belly. Patrick looks up from under his brow, then, finding Art’s gaze with his own while Patrick's hand finds the wet nub of Tashi’s clit.
They work in tandem. Perfect fucking unison. Three separate rhythms melded into one. Patrick and Art and Tashi and tennis and Tash and tennis and Art and Patrick Art and Patrick and tennis and Tashi. Tashi’s mouth, Tashi’s hair, Tashi’s lips. Art’s cock, his tiny pink nipples, the way his hair curled over his ears. Patrick’s tongue, Patrick’s fingers, Patrick’s massive fucking dick. Different competitions they were all winning, the same competition they were all losing.
Earlier, on the tennis court, when he and Art were trading rallies back and forth, when he and Art kept getting closer to the net, pulled towards each other — the sun, its orbiting planets — Patrick was kind of hard. Who could blame him? Good fucking tennis, right? That’s what Tashi always wanted.
Good. Fucking. Tennis.
It doesn’t take very long for Art to come inside of Tashi. Patrick pulls her over to straddle his face, then, and eats Art’s come out of Tashi until she orgasms. Art watches. Tashi watches Art watch the two of them. Patrick closes his eyes, tastes Tashi’s cunt, and reaches over blindly to dig his fingernails into Art’s thigh.
#
This will probably end badly.
Patrick doesn’t really care.
Life is always better when you feel like you’re winning.
fin.