Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spring 2000

“Maybe I’m dying,” Art said.

“Stop that, you are not dying,” his grandma admonished. But she looked worried, for-real worried. Art had only suggested that to be annoying, needling her because it was funny, but if she looked like that, maybe he really was dying?

See, the thing was that usually Mr. Donaldson paid Art next to no attention whatsoever. He’d nudge him aside if Art was in the way or maybe give him an absent-minded pat on the head or shoulder in passing. He certainly didn’t hesitate to punish him if Mrs. Donaldson or Kaylee said Art needed it. Otherwise, though, Mr. Donaldson walked around in complete indifference to Art’s existence.

In the last week, however, Mr. Donaldson had taken off of work not once but twice to drive Art to doctor’s appointments. They were strange doctor’s appointments, too. The first doctor did all the normal stuff, like taking Art’s blood pressure and weighing him, but she also took what seemed like an excessive amount of blood (as well as a urine sample), closely examined every possible part of his body, and asked him about eight million more questions than he was used to answering at a physical. Had he ever been stung by a bee? (Yes, not allergic.) Could he remember ever having been hit in the head by something hard? (Nothing harder than a tennis ball, and he hadn’t been hurt.) How often did he poop, and was his stool normal? (Uh, the usual amount, probably? And he thought so?)

The second doctor was even weirder. He made Mr. Donaldson sit in the waiting room and had Art follow him back to a room with no equipment, just a couple chairs in front of a desk and another behind it. He explained that he wasn’t a medical doctor but a psychologist, and he and Art were just going to talk for a little while. He said he’d be writing an assessment describing the “broad strokes” of their conversation, but that the details would not be reported to Mr. Donaldson, so Art should feel free to be completely honest.

That shrink needed a shrink, in Art’s private opinion, if he thought he was going to trick Art into complaining about how the Donaldsons treated him. Free people were out of their minds. As far as this guy was concerned, the Donaldsons were very nice to Art and to his grandma, and everything was kittens and rainbows.

Holy moly, though, he’d thought the questions at the last appointment were intrusive, but this was on another level. Had Art ever hurt himself on purpose or thought about doing so? Did he ever want to die? How did he feel about his mom’s death?

By the end of that appointment, Art felt utterly wrung out from trying to give answers that satisfied the doctor while also telling him nothing. Exhausting. He went home and begged off his chores in favor of doing his homework and going to bed early. Perhaps it was because Art rarely got sick, or perhaps it was a sign that she was aware Art had only weeks to live, but Mrs. Donaldson actually let him, too.

***

The answer came two weeks later, after he and his grandma finished clearing the dinner table. Kaylee retreated to her bedroom, and the Donaldsons ushered the two of them into Mr. Donaldson’s office, where nothing good had ever happened to Art and apparently nothing good ever would.

“Now, we didn’t want this to be a surprise to you when the time comes,” Mr. Donaldson said, “and I’m sure this will be unpleasant to hear. But we’ve decided to find a buyer for Art soon after he hits his next birthday.”

Art’s stomach dropped, and he felt his grandmother go rigid next to him. Art was going to turn twelve in just a few weeks. He was going to be sold away from his grandma in a few weeks. He wished desperately that he could go back in time to a minute ago, when he thought he was just dying.

“But, Master, why?” his grandma asked, her voice sounding strangled. “He’s… he’s so young…”

“We’ve thought about that. But I’ve done my research, and Art is actually a great fit to be given as a slave in trust. He’s healthy, he’s smart, he’s well-behaved and a good-looking boy. A lot of parents are looking for that for their sons. And this tennis thing turned out to be quite a bonus. I never would have thought people would pay for that, but it looks like it’s a major selling point!” Mr. Donaldson gestured enthusiastically.

Beautiful, Art thought. That was really nice. He tried his best in school and at tennis, and he did what he was told at home, and this was the reward: a nice paycheck for the Donaldsons and the near-certainty that Art would never see his grandmother again.

There was something else niggling at the back of his mind, too: he knew that a slave couldn’t legally be sold separately from their mother (or in Art’s case, his “primary caregiver”) any earlier than the age of twelve. That meant the Donaldsons were getting rid of him the very second they were allowed to do it. That didn’t feel so good. But Art could hardly hear that part over the sound of him losing his grandmother forever.

At that point, Mrs. Donaldson spoke up. “I understand this is difficult for both of you, but, of course, it would’ve been difficult at any time. And I really think this isn’t the best environment for Art. We may find that he’s actually happier living with a boy his own age.”

Neither Art nor his grandma had anything to say to that. Or rather, they didn’t have anything that they could say out loud. There were several long seconds of silence in the office before Mrs. Donaldson sighed heavily, as if they had failed to appreciate her vision.

“All right. I think that’ll be all for tonight. Finish the dishes, and then you may go up.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” Art’s grandma said, and Art should’ve said it, too, but he didn’t and nobody reproached him for it. They filed out.

In the kitchen, Art’s grandmother washed the cookware and dishes from dinner while Art dried, and they didn’t dare speak. Only in the sanctuary of the attic, flopped morosely onto his bed, did Art ask the question he’d been turning over in his mind.

“Why do you think she hates me so much? I never did anything to her. Is it because of my mom? Because Mr. Donaldson is my…?”

His grandmother settled onto her own bed a few feet away and gave him a measured look. Normally she might have told him that Mrs. Donaldson didn’t hate him, and he shouldn’t talk about his mistress that way. She didn’t appear to be in the mood right now.

Finally she answered, “No, I don’t think so. She never seemed to care about that. No, it’s about money now just like it was about money then. I’m sorry to say you’ve been something of a financial disappointment from the start. They were hoping your mother would be a good little breeder like I was. Obviously that didn’t work out. And on top of that you were born a boy, and they weren’t pleased about that either.”

Art nodded. That made sense: babies inherited their mother’s legal status. Female slaves could get pregnant and pop out more little slaves to work for you or to sell for a profit, so young and healthy ones were a lot more valuable than males, even if men were better for manual labor and stuff like that. By being a boy and killing his mother, Art had cost the Donaldsons a lot of money.

His grandma reached out and tenderly smoothed his hair back with her hand. “I hope I don’t have to tell you that you are nothing but a blessing to me, my sweet, sweet, darling boy. I love you so much, and I wouldn’t change you for anything.”

Man, did Art wish he could cost them even more. Last Saturday Mr. Donaldson had come to the tennis courts with his camcorder and taped Art’s match against Kaylee. He had won, and it wasn’t close. Now he wished bitterly that he had lost. That he had half-assed it and played his all-time worst and embarrassed himself so bad that Kaylee laughed at him until she cried. Art wished that he was worthless so he could stay here with the only person in the world who loved him.

“I love you, too, grandma,” Art said.

***

The following weeks were some of the bleakest of Art’s life. His birthday came and went, easily the worst he could remember. The kids at his school sang “Happy Birthday” to him, and Art viciously stuffed down tears so as not to make an idiot of himself in front of everyone he knew. Upon coming home, he found that his grandma had made a batch of chocolate chip cookies for Kaylee so that she could sneak a couple to Art. As soon as he put one in his mouth, he began bawling, and his grandmother spent the next fifteen minutes rocking him back and forth, shushing him and promising him that everything would be okay and other things she couldn’t possibly know.

Mr. Donaldson called Art’s teacher and asked her to write a letter recommending him to his next master. It occurred to Art that he could sabotage it: refuse to do his work, start yelling in class, pick a fight with another boy. But his teacher was the lone instructor for the town’s thirty-something slave children, all ages. She was a free woman who worked in a tiny, dilapidated building behind the regular public school that Kaylee attended. She was in a state of constant movement, flitting from one student to the next, trying to help them understand the material in their textbooks and presumably getting paid crap money to do so. She was warm and kind and clearly fond of Art. He couldn’t do that to her.

She handed Mr. Donaldson a glowing letter which praised Art’s intelligence, respect for others, hard work, and overall good behavior. Art’s master was so pleased that he gave Art a candy bar as a reward, a literally unprecedented event in Art’s lifetime. Art tried to give it to his grandmother, who insisted he have the whole thing to himself. He ate it, though it tasted like nothing.

Also at Mr. Donaldson’s behest, Art sat for an extensive test which covered several subjects and contained logic puzzles, math problems, reading comprehension questions, and short essays. He might’ve found it kind of interesting if it weren’t for the purpose of proving his cleverness to potential buyers. He didn’t attempt to subvert this, either, figuring it was probably too late and he was doomed anyway. Might as well not have his new owner think he was a moron.

Art remained on perfect good behavior at home. There was no point in doing otherwise. He would just wind up getting the belt and for what? They’d only be more eager to sell him on.

One day in late June, shortly after the free kids’ summer break began (the slave schoolhouse remained open all year, and why not, when they weren’t going to summer camp or on vacations), Kaylee approached Art. He was scrubbing out her bathtub, trying to spare his grandma from having to get down on her knees to do it while he still could.

“Hey,” Kaylee greeted him, clearly uncomfortable. He put the brush down and stared at her expectantly. “So I don’t know when they were going to tell you, but I heard my parents talking last night and… my dad found someone. A buyer. They made a deal, and the guy wants to pick you up next month for his son’s birthday. I’m not sure exactly when.”

Art absorbed this information for a moment and then said, “Thank you, miss.” He was taken aback when she dropped to her knees on the bathroom floor next to him and gave him a hug, sweaty and kind of gross though he was.

“I’m really sorry, Art,” Kaylee said. “I’ll miss you.” When she pulled back, her dark eyes were all wet.

Art was completely thrown. Kaylee was thirteen and lately, outside of tennis, seemed like she wanted nothing to do with him. They had grown up together, and Art had served as Kaylee’s playmate whenever she demanded it. Mostly this involved Kaylee ordering him around, occasionally slapping him or tattling to her parents so he’d get spanked, but there was good stuff, too. Practically the only time Art got to do anything fun was when Kaylee wanted him to do it with her: playing with her toys, watching movies in the living room, swimming in the lake. The only reason the Donaldsons bought him a bike (secondhand, naturally) and taught him to ride was so he could keep Kaylee company. Not to mention tennis, which was Art’s favorite thing. If she hadn’t taken it up, he never would have learned.

“I’ll miss you, too,” Art said, and he found he sort of meant it.

As Kaylee got up and left the bathroom, Art started scrubbing at a stubborn spot on the tub again. He wasn’t in a particular hurry to give his grandmother the news. He thought he’d be savoring his precious remaining time with her, treasuring every moment or whatever, but at this point Art was kind of avoiding her. He felt guilty about it, but it was just one more thing that made the last two months awful: his grandma only ever wanted to discuss one thing anymore, and it was a horrifying thing. It was sex.

Because yeah, okay, Art would have said before that he could talk to his grandmother about anything, and it’s not like there was someone else he’d rather ask. It was just… zero to sixty on the sex ed. His grandmother was a religious woman with whom Art had attended church every Sunday of his life. She’d taught Art how babies were made and what would happen to his body during puberty and not a whole lot else. Now, though, she was in a race with the clock to make sure Art was prepared for his “duties” because his new master would “expect things.”

He was so educated about sex now. There couldn’t possibly be more. Yet it seemed there always was.

“There’s no way,” Art protested one night, head half buried under his pillow after an excruciatingly specific discussion on anal sex. “There’s no way this kid is going to want that. Right? It’s nasty.”

Art’s grandma considered it. “Probably not right away. They said they were selling you as a slave in trust, and that means they’ll be giving you as a gift to a boy who’s about your age, someone who’ll get proper legal custody of you when he turns eighteen. It’s possible he’ll be a year older, no more than two.”

Art poked his head free. “How do you know how old he’ll be?” he said curiously.

“It’s a matter of timing. You know free people become adults when they turn eighteen, and for slaves it’s sixteen. If he was more than two years older than you, when he turned eighteen you’d still be legally a child, and he wouldn’t be allowed to… well, you know.”

Art stuffed himself back under his pillow and let out a smothered wail. “Does anybody think about anything other than sex? Is everyone in the world just obsessed?”

His grandmother ripped the pillow out of his hands. “That’s quite enough of the theatrics. And to answer your questions: unfortunately, yes, most people are rather obsessed with sex, and that goes triple for teenage boys. And unfortunately, yes, I do think this boy is going to expect these things of you, eventually, if not right away. They don’t talk about it, sweetheart, but this is a big reason why these people give their child a slave at this age, so they can explore sex discreetly and without any embarrassing teenage pregnancies or what have you.”

“So that’s it, that’s what I’m for? I’m really fancy birth control for some rich kid?”

Art’s grandma frowned. “No. That is not what you’re for. You are going to look after this boy: clean up after him and help him with his homework and give him advice and take care of him when he’s sick. You’ll be his companion. Some people are closer with their personal slave than they are with their spouse. If you’re lucky, you’ll love him and be together your whole lives.”

“What if I’m not lucky?” Art asked, subdued.

“My darling boy, there are so many things we don’t control in this world. That goes for anybody but especially people like us. That’s life. Worrying won’t do you any good.”

“Okay,” Art sighed.

“Now, what will do you good is preparation. So now we’re going to talk about getting clean down there before the act. Very important.”

Art groaned and put his face in his hands, praying for the escape of a quick death.

Chapter Text

Summer 2000

Everything Art was bringing with him to his new life fit easily into Kaylee’s old highlighter-yellow backpack, even though you couldn’t use one of the pockets because the zipper was busted. It was also sort of dingy-looking, still, after washing it twice. However, given Kaylee’s usual tastes, Art considered himself lucky it wasn’t bright pink with the Powerpuff Girls on it or something like that. He had enough to worry about without ensuring that his new master laughed in his face before Art could open his mouth.

The backpack contained a few changes of clothing along with his toothbrush and things like that. It also had a handful of items that were from his and his grandmother’s meager collection of prized possessions: first was a rather lumpy and misshapen stuffed dog that Art’s mom had knitted when she was pregnant. Then there was a photograph of Art’s mom next to his grandma, holding a newborn Art; this was the only existing picture of the three of them together and one of the precious few that had his mom at all. A list of names was written on the back of it in his grandmother’s precise penmanship. Lastly, there was a handkerchief that his grandma had embroidered with little snowflakes years prior. She had slept with it spread over her pillow for the last week, and for the moment it still smelled like her hair.

Mrs. Donaldson made sure to review the contents of the bag in case there was anything the Donaldsons wanted – technically whatever belonged to Art actually belonged to them – but thankfully there didn’t seem to be. She did hold up the stuffed dog, though, and asked with doubt in her voice, “This wasn’t Kaylee’s, was it?”

It was maybe a fair question, given that all of Art’s other toys were Kaylee’s hand-me-downs, broken things repaired to the best of Art’s grandma’s ability. A bear whose stuffing was coming out, carefully stitched shut again; a doll whose arm kept popping out of its socket no matter how you superglued it; a tiny piano with two missing keys. Art had been banned from actually playing the latter for the sake of his grandmother’s sanity.

“No, Mistress. Art’s mother made that for him,” his grandma answered dutifully.

“All right. He can keep it, then,” was Mrs. Donaldson’s gracious response.

“Thank you, Mistress,” Art’s grandma said, and Art echoed it quietly, trying to keep the sullenness out of his voice.

***

The day of Art’s sale would be the first time he could remember failing to attend services on a Sunday morning, short of either him or his grandmother being grievously ill. In other circumstances Art might’ve appreciated the break from getting up early to prepare the Donaldsons’ breakfast and then walk the forty minutes to the church. Today, though, the familiarity of the ritual would have been a comfort to him. It wasn’t like he could enjoy the chance to rest, anyway, not when he’d been awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling, mind electrified with worry. At some early hour, when thin morning light had just begun to creep through the attic’s single window, Art had given up trying to avoid disturbing his grandmother. He’d crawled into her narrow bed and tucked himself tightly against her body despite the summer heat. Only then had he managed to cry himself into a restless sleep, falling unconscious to the sensation of her stroking his hair. He’d woken groggy and disoriented, feeling as if the world was sliding sideways out of his grasp, the loss inescapable.

At breakfast Mr. and Mrs. Donaldson were in cheery moods, no doubt anticipating the cashing of a big fat check, and in Mrs. Donaldson’s case, anticipating having Art taken off her hands permanently. Kaylee, on the other hand, picked at her eggs, looking moody.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” Mrs. Donaldson asked her.

“Yes, mother.” Kaylee scowled. “Something is wrong. Art is leaving, not that you care.”

“Your mother and I could do without the tone,” Mr. Donaldson commented. “And we’re all going to miss Art, but he’s going to a situation that will be much better for him. It’ll be for the best for everyone, you’ll see.” He held out his cup, and Art’s grandmother replenished it from the coffee pot.

“Yeah, whatever,” Kaylee said, stabbing an egg yolk with force.

A mere hour later, Art and his grandmother were watching through the front window as Art’s new owner pulled up in a very shiny, new-looking black SUV. He wasn’t driving, however; the person who climbed out of the front was a slave in a red collar, a big guy with a solemn face and thick eyebrows. In a second, the back door opened to reveal the man himself, who had salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing a suit. The Donaldsons went outside to greet him and shake his hand.

“Here we go,” Art’s grandma said softly, giving Art’s upper arms a squeeze.

The four adults entered the house and ignored Art’s grandmother, all eyes suddenly on Art. He stood up straighter under the attention. Mr. Donaldson moved to stand behind Art, and he put his hands on Art’s shoulders.

“Art, this is your new master, Mr. Zweig. Say hello.”

“Hello, si– um, sorry, Master.” Art felt his cheeks heating up. Two words into meeting his new owner and he had already messed it up.

Fortunately, Mr. Zweig just looked vaguely amused. “Nothing to worry about. You’re right, after all, I’m ‘sir’ for the next few minutes– until we get that paperwork signed. Shall we?”

“Absolutely,” Mr. Donaldson said, gesturing in the direction of his office and following Mrs. Donaldson and Mr. Zweig down the hall. Just behind them was Mr. Zweig’s tall, broad-shouldered slave. Up close he looked even sterner, and Art could see that his collar was red leather embroidered with some elaborate pattern of gold thread. At once Art felt very plain; his and his grandma’s were cheap-looking in comparison, simple black fabric with a clasp in the back. The slave passed by them, giving Art an unreadable look before disappearing from view.

Art would’ve thought he and his grandmother would have a million things to say, now that their twelve years together would be coming to an end in minutes. Nothing he could think of felt adequate to the moment, though, and Art found himself just sitting in silence on the living room couch, holding his grandma’s hand. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her fingering her necklace, the plain wooden cross on a cord she had worn his entire life, which probably meant she was praying. Art wondered if he should pray, too, only lately he’d been having some serious doubts about the whole “loving God” situation. So instead he stared into space and tried to think about nothing while he played with the buckle of Kaylee’s backpack and waited for the signatures that would change every single thing about his life.

***

When it was done, the whole household trooped out to the driveway to see Art off, drifting into a line, one next to the other.

Kaylee stepped forward first, giving Art a hug and whispering a quick goodbye in his ear. She looked saddened but at least not like she was about to cry this time. “Bye, Miss Kaylee,” Art said. It didn’t cut like the thought of saying goodbye to his grandmother, but there was a certain hollowness in his stomach at the idea that he’d never see her again, either.

At that moment, Mr. Donaldson reached out suddenly and clapped Art on the shoulder with enough force to make him sway.

“You’re going to do great, son, I promise you,” he said. That was strange, Art thought. He had never called him “son” before. Art searched his face, but Mr. Donaldson looked just the same as always, and he stepped away before Art found anything.

Next was Mrs. Donaldson. To Art’s relief, she did not try to touch him. “Goodbye, Art. You be a good boy for the Zweigs,” she said. Kaylee had the same dark brown eyes as her mother, Art noted, but where Kaylee’s had been full of emotion, Mrs. Donaldson’s held absolutely nothing for him.

“I will, ma’am,” Art emphasized and watched Mrs. Donaldson recoil with some satisfaction. She looked like she wanted to strike him across the face, but there was nothing she could do. She officially didn’t own him anymore; she was no longer his mistress.

Then the moment arrived. Art fell into his grandmother’s arms and hugged her for what was probably the last time ever, tightly. She rocked him back and forth for a moment. “Never doubt that you are loved, you hear me?” his grandma murmured into his ear, and Art nodded. After a few seconds, there was a quiet noise of throat-clearing behind Art, and his grandma released him slowly. Right before she did so, she brushed the pads of her fingers against his. It was a gesture Art had known since infancy, one he’d used a thousand times with his grandmother and on occasion with friends at school. It lacked a specific meaning, just the quiet acknowledgment of one slave by another. I see you.

Art’s grandma wiped his face, ignoring her own tears. “You’d better get going,” she said, voice low and rough.

“I love you,” Art told her softly before he turned away.

Art walked over to where Mr. Zweig was standing, holding a file folder. He gave Art an evaluating look which made him self-conscious of his reddened, tear-streaked face.

“What do you say, Max?” he asked. “Do you think he’s tall enough to sit up front with you?”

“I believe so, Master,” his slave answered.

“Good.” Mr. Zweig shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Donaldson one last time. “Oh, just one more thing. I don’t know about you, but I really think 'no contact' is the best policy. You know, avoid unnecessary attachments.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Donaldson.

“We entirely agree,” said Mrs. Donaldson.

Art’s stomach clenched. He’d already known, of course, he wouldn’t be permitted to speak to his grandmother: his mom had been the youngest of many siblings, and none of them had ever been allowed to call or write to his grandma after they were separated. This was just one additional nail in the coffin. It didn’t make any difference.

“Excellent,” Mr. Zweig was saying. “Well, it’s been a pleasure. I’ll be in touch before our thirty days are up to let you know how things are going or if any issues arise.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Mr. Donaldson said.

With that, Mr. Zweig opened the backseat of the car and slid inside. His slave – Max – guided Art to the passenger side door with a light hand on his arm. They climbed into their separate sides, and Art watched his grandma wave goodbye as the car backed out of the driveway, taking in her visage hungrily. Then they were gone.

***

There was no music or radio in the car, like the Donaldsons normally played. Instead, Mr. Zweig made a series of boring-sounding business calls on his cellphone while Max drove in silence and Art tried hard not to fidget. Eventually, though, he came to realize that Mr. Zweig had started talking about him.

“Oh yes, it’s an all-day affair. We just had to pluck the kid from Bumfuck, Indiana, of course, so I’m flying all over. Exactly how I wanted to spend my Sunday. Well, sure, but you know how it is. You want something done right– exactly, exactly. You can’t count on anyone else with a purchase like this, you really can’t. I’m entrusting him with my son, aren’t I? Right, nothing could be more important. I had to see the kid and the place myself, make sure it’s not a hovel, and I wasn’t just sold a bill of goods. Sure. You never can tell what kind of habits they might’ve picked up over the years. I actually wouldn’t have minded getting one even younger, but you know, they say it’s like puppies. They don’t turn out right if you separate them too early from the bitch.”

Art did his best to stop listening after that part.

Art had collected one important bit of information from this conversation (well, besides the fact that he’d already managed to annoy his new master by making him travel a long way). Flying. Like actually flying? Like on a plane? Was Art about to get on a plane?

He was. The airport in Indianapolis was far and away the busiest place Art had ever been. Art struggled to take in the sheer number of people, all hurrying around on some important business. It reminded him of a shot he had once seen in a nature documentary, the inside of a beehive, the bees crawling all over each other’s bodies to get to one little hole or another. He trotted after Mr. Zweig and Max, doing what he could to keep up as they checked in and went through security, showing their own documents as well as some from Art’s folder. At the gate, Mr. Zweig boarded the plane separately. This was because he was flying business class, Max explained, while he and Art would be sitting in economy. Seated in the back of the plane, backpack under the seat in front of him as Max specified, Art was just glad to have a little distance from Mr. Zweig so he could breathe. Max was intimidating, too, but Max was also a slave.

Art listened to the flight attendants talk about safety features, feeling nervous but not actually frightened. He was grateful he got to sit in the window seat when the plane finally took off and he got to watch the buildings and cars beneath them get smaller and smaller, looking like someone’s impossibly perfect little model of a town, before being concealed by clouds.

Once looking out the window stopped being entertaining, though, Art found himself with nothing to do. For a while he sat perfectly still and stared straight ahead, trying to be so irreproachably good that Max would have nothing bad to report to Mr. Zweig. Then he gave up on that and fell to fidgeting: squirming in his seat, playing with his seatbelt and his clothes, looking around at the other people on the flight. Eventually even this wasn’t enough, and Art broke down and addressed Max.

“Uh, sir?” he asked timidly.

Max’s eyebrows shot up. “No. My name is Max, and I’m not free, so you don’t call me 'sir.'”

“I know,” Art said, kicking himself. He did know that, he wasn’t an idiot, just apparently doing his best impression of one today. “Can you tell me… do the Zweigs live in New York?”

“No, they don’t. We’re flying into Newark right now. That’s in New Jersey, where the Zweigs live most of the year. But today we’re catching a connecting flight to Portland.” For a second, Art puzzled at the geography of this, and Max noticed his dilemma. “The one in Maine, I mean. That’s where the Zweigs summer.”

Art had already gathered that Mr. Zweig had more money than Mr. Donaldson, but if it hadn’t been clear before, it certainly was now. The Donaldsons were people who went on vacations, sometimes. The Zweigs were people who summered. Like a verb.

During the next hour, Max patiently answered Art’s questions about the plane and the Zweigs and how “catching a connecting flight” worked. His new master’s name was Patrick, was his most important takeaway. The son, that was, not Mr. Zweig. Patrick was just now twelve, two months younger than Art. This reassured him a little regarding the stuff he and his grandma had talked about. At least Patrick wasn’t an older boy who might be more… advanced. Max also got up to show Art where the bathroom was and ordered him a juice when the lady came around with a drink cart and Art froze up at the number of options.

Art thought Max was much less scary when he was away from Mr. Zweig.

When the pilot announced the descent and Art’s ears started hurting in an unfamiliar way, Max noticed him rubbing them and procured Art a piece of gum from a slave in a neighboring seat.

“It has to do with the change in pressure as the plane lands. You want to move your jaw around to make your ears pop. This should help.”

He did, however, insist that Art give up the gum as soon as the plane was on the ground and unloading. “Your new master thinks this is a disgusting habit. Meaning it’s best not to get caught,” he added with a little wink. Art smiled back, small but genuine. Max held out the wrapper in his palm, and Art spit the gum into his hand.

***

Between the two flights and the long drives at either end, Art was dragging by the time they finally arrived. He’d never known you could get so tired from sitting down and doing nothing all day. He shook himself to alertness as they pulled up, though, heart pounding suddenly. This was it, the beginning of the rest of his life.

The Zweigs’ summer home was bigger than the Donaldsons' actual home, cream-colored, with a pretty turret, and surrounded by similarly extravagant-looking houses up and down the street. There was also a four-car garage, which Art couldn’t remember having ever seen on a house in real life before. Once inside Mr. Zweig opened the back door immediately and climbed out, but when Art made to do the same, Max touched his shoulder to halt him.

“Listen,” Max told Art, “Patrick isn’t perfect, but at the end of the day he’s a good kid. I think he’ll do okay by you. You take good care of him, all right?”

Art nodded seriously. “Okay.”

They exited the car together, and Art put on his backpack once more, trying to imagine it was armor of a kind.

He followed Mr. Zweig and Max on a winding path past several open rooms, including at least two he would have identified as the living room. Each was full of expensive-looking art and breakable objects, just waiting for Art to slip up and get his butt whipped for. Touch nothing, Art instructed himself sternly. They finally stopped when they arrived at yet another living room, this one somewhat less formal-looking, with a squashy couch, a big TV, and a fireplace. Two people stood when they entered.

The woman, of course, was Mrs. Zweig – she greeted her husband with a peck on the cheek and a sympathetic, “Long day?” to which Mr. Zweig heaved a sigh. “Have you eaten?”

“On the plane… if you can call that food. But nevermind that. Here, this is Art. Art, this is your new mistress.” Unlike earlier, Art managed not to fumble his greeting to her, though it felt bizarre to call someone other than Mrs. Donaldson “Mistress.”

The other person was a kid Art’s age, dark-haired and appearing much more at ease than Art felt. He was also looking Art over with obvious fascination. Art suddenly didn’t know where to look or what to do with his hands. His throat felt dry.

“I’m Patrick,” the boy said to him, putting a hand on his chest. Before Art could respond in kind, Patrick had already turned away and was speaking to his father. “Can we go upstairs now?”

“Not yet. I want you to take the boy to the kitchen and get him something to eat. And after that I want you to let him get some rest. Your mother’s right, it has been a long day, and I don’t want you keeping him up late tonight, do you understand me? Art is your responsibility.”

“Okay, dad, you’ve only told me that seventy thousand times.”

“Patrick.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Patrick moaned, grabbing Art by the wrist and dragging him out of the room as if in a hurry to escape. Patrick pulled him down the hall in this manner, then ducked through a doorway with Art behind him.

There was a woman in the kitchen already, rifling through a box of index cards at the counter. She had graying blonde hair and very wide hips. She turned around when they came in and smiled at them both. Art saw that she was wearing the same collar that Max had, red with a swirling gold pattern.

“This is Art,” Patrick said. “My dad says we’re supposed to feed him.”

“I think we can handle that,” she said. “Hi, honey, my name’s Nadine. I’m the cook around here. They told me you don’t have any food allergies, is that right?” Art nodded. “Do you eat turkey and cheese?” He nodded again. He still hadn’t actually spoken more than two words in front of Patrick. His voice seemed to have disappeared.

Nadine set about making Art a sandwich, and she asked Patrick, “What about you, baby? Can I get you something?”

“Do you have any more of those cookies with the jelly?” Patrick said.

Nadine clicked her tongue and turned to pull a box of cookies out of a cabinet. “Fine, but if your mother hears, you stole them when my back was turned.”

Patrick grinned and accepted the box, shoving a cookie into his mouth. Max entered the kitchen and waved a hand to Nadine.

“You want a sandwich, too?” she asked.

“Please,” Max said, settling at the table.

Art did his best to eat his food and ignore Patrick standing next to him, staring at Art and palpably buzzing with energy, like Art was an interesting new species of lizard he’d discovered.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. After a minute, Nadine marched over and pulled out the chair next to Art. “For God’s sake, Patrick, sit. Can’t you tell you’re making the poor kid nervous?” Patrick sat down, not appearing the least bit chastened.

Max’s expression looked pained. “Could we try, just for a change, addressing Mr. Patrick appropriately? Art just got here, and you are setting a terrible example.”

“You do whatever you want, honey, but you’re not the boss of me. And neither is this twelve year old kid. Mister, my foot.” Nadine gave Patrick’s hair a firm, affectionate ruffle that left it standing up a little bit. Still chewing, he tilted his head backwards to show her a pleased look.

Nadine returned to the counter to finish Max’s sandwich and spoke to Art. “As far as meals are concerned, there’s a couple things you should know. Breakfast for us is right here at 7:30 sharp, and dinner’s at 5:30, do not be late. You’ll be there when the family eats at 8:30 am and 6:30 pm in the dining room. Patrick will show you where to go. Everyone more or less fends for themselves for lunch, you just come get whatever you want. Anything that is especially for the family is marked with a sticky note, so just look out for that and you’ll be fine. Got it?”

“Yes. Thank you,” Art said politely. Five words, now. Great stuff, Art.

The second Art swallowed the last bite of his sandwich, Patrick was on his feet. “Come on,” he told Art, “we can hang out in my room.” Art tried to take his plate to the sink, but Nadine grabbed it from him, flapping a hand.

“I’ve got it, baby. You go see where you’re gonna be staying, okay?”

Patrick was standing in the doorway, bouncing impatiently on his toes. As soon as Art headed in his direction, he began to move through the house with speed, and Art chased him while attempting to memorize the path from the kitchen to Patrick’s room, since he’d need to reverse it in the morning. Fortunately, Patrick’s bedroom was the first door on the left as soon as you got up the stairs, so that much was easy.

Art’s first thought was that his work was definitely cut out for him. Patrick’s room looked like a cyclone had just been through. The desk was a mess of objects, there were clothes all over the floor and hanging out of the dresser, and a few dishes were placed precariously around the room, though to Art’s relief he didn’t see moldy food or anything like that. His second thought was to notice the posters of professional tennis players covering the walls and trophies scattered across the shelves, immediately followed by his third thought, whoa, because Patrick had his own TV and computer. In his bedroom. In a vacation house. Crazy.

It was his fourth thought that made his heartbeat pick up: there was only one bed in the room. It was a big bed, sure, which would fit two people without them having to touch, no problem… but still. Nadine had said he’d be staying here. Would he be sleeping in the same bed as Patrick? His stomach twisted a little. Maybe his grandma had been right to worry about all that stuff.

Thinking of his grandma for the first time in hours felt like taking a punch. Art had spent all day trying not to think about her and her constant presence and her familiar voice and way of speaking and touch and smell and how he was never gonna experience any of those things ever again. He felt tears prick in his eyes, and he blinked hard and took a deep breath. Not now, no way could he cry in front of Patrick right now. He had to pull it together.

“What do you think?” Patrick asked.

Art steadied himself. “It’s great, Master.”

Patrick wrinkled his nose. “Aw, dude. Do you think you could not call me that? I mean, you definitely have to in front of my family because otherwise my dad will go ballistic. But when we’re alone and stuff, it’s just Patrick. Please. Okay?”

Art stared at him. “Yeah. If that’s what you want.”

“Definitely.”

A silence descended on the room. Patrick shoved a pair of shorts off the bed, thus making it the only clear surface in the room. He sat down, leaning back on his hands.

“So…” he trailed off and bit his lip.

“Is it your birthday today?” Art asked suddenly, latching onto the topic of conversation as soon as it occurred to him.

“Hmm? Oh, no, it was a couple days ago. We had this big stupid party with half the neighborhood. That’s actually why they didn’t bring you for my exact birthday. My mom said she didn’t want you to be ‘overwhelmed.’” Art couldn’t help but think that was surprisingly considerate of her. He felt a little overwhelmed as it was.

“Right,” he said. There were a few more seconds of quiet, then Patrick snapped his fingers.

“Oh shit, I almost forgot. There’s something I’m supposed to give you.” Patrick walked over to his desk and picked up one of its many articles, a slim black box. He handed it to Art, who took it with curiosity. He opened it.

Inside was a collar. It was the same red and gold one Art had seen on Max and Nadine. He probably should have put it together that he’d get one, too, but he hadn’t. He traced a stretch of gold stitching with his finger. It was beautiful, he supposed. Art couldn’t picture himself wearing it at all.

He looked up at Patrick. “I think you’re supposed to put it on me, right? That’s… that’s a thing.” It was traditional, he knew that much.

“I guess,” Patrick said. “Do you want me to?”

Art felt conflicted, not so much about the collar but about the question. It was… nice, sort of, that Patrick asked, and he didn’t just force it on Art. But Art wasn’t supposed to have to make that kind of decision. That was… that was, like, the whole point. But there was a right answer here, Art was sure of it.

“You should do it,” Art said, meeting Patrick’s eye.

Patrick nodded, looking serious. He walked up behind Art, who forced himself to keep still. Patrick reached up and, brushing Art’s neck in a way that made him suppress a shiver, he unclasped Art’s old black collar from his neck. For a moment Art felt naked, standing there with his back to Patrick. He took his collar off all the time, to shower or whatever, but he was almost always alone when he did it. He couldn’t think of a single time he’d taken it off in front of a free person.

Patrick handed the old collar over to him, and Art passed back the new one. It was leather, obviously better quality but kind of stiff. Patrick settled it around his neck and adjusted the strap.

“Is that okay? Too tight?” he said into Art’s ear. Art took a deep breath, testing it.

“No, I think it’s okay.”

“Okay.” Patrick’s hands withdrew. He walked back in front of Art. They each struggled to look one another in the eye. The moment had been oddly intimate. “Um, my dad said that you’d be tired. Do you want to go to bed now?”

“I guess we should,” Art said. That had been Mr. Zweig's instruction.

“Okay, well, bathroom’s through there,” Patrick said, pointing to a doorway on the other side of the room. Art hadn’t even clocked that, but of course Patrick had his own bathroom, too. “So you can brush your teeth or whatever.”

“Thanks.” Art went over to where he’d dropped his backpack and collected his toothbrush, toothpaste, and pajamas to take into the bathroom. When he emerged, Patrick was in just his t-shirt and boxers, which was how he slept, Art guessed. He slipped past Art into the bathroom and closed the door, and Art was alone in the room. After he'd shoved his dirty clothes into his bag, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. Someone had told Art where to be and what to do every second of the day since he’d left home. He could lie down in Patrick’s bed, he thought, but the idea made him anxious, like Patrick would come back in and yell at him for it. He settled for perching on the very edge of the bed, muscles locked. When the bathroom door opened, Art’s head swung towards it sharply, apparently catching Patrick’s attention.

“Uh, everything okay?” he asked with a bemused smile.

“Yeah, sorry, I just wasn’t sure if I was supposed to…”

The smile became more genuine. “Yeah, you’re good, man. You can lie down.” He turned off the overhead light, and after a few seconds of adjustment, Art could see the outline of Patrick headed towards him. He climbed onto the bed and crawled past Art to lie down on the side nearest to the wall. Finally, carefully, Art settled next to him. Patrick pulled the covers up over them, and they laid there in the darkness for a minute, listening to one another’s breathing.

“Oh, yeah,” Patrick said at once, and he proceeded to scare the bejeezus out of Art by lunging across his body, sending his heart rate skyrocketing.

Patrick turned on the lamp on the bedside table and said, “Almost forgot to change my alarm. You know, so you wake up for breakfast.” Still leaning over Art, he fiddled with the clock while Art stared at him, rigid. Then he set it back down, turned off the light, and retreated to his side of the bed.

Christ. Art tried to calm himself. Okay, okay, everything was fine. Patrick wasn’t going to do anything. He was just being nice. Everything was going to be okay. Only Art was a little shaken, and tears were forming in his eyes again, then sliding down his cheeks. Goddammit. There he was, crying in front of Patrick after all. Art wiped at his face brusquely, hating himself for being such a little baby. At least he was being quiet about it. Then–

“Hey… are you okay?” Patrick’s voice came through the darkness.

Not quiet enough, it seemed. Art let himself sniffle a little louder. No point in trying to hide it now.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m fine. We can go to sleep now,” he said, hoping maybe Patrick would drop it.

Art wasn’t that lucky.

“Do you, um. Do you miss your mom and dad...?” Patrick suggested, tentative.

Art weighed his answer. He could say, no, really, he was fine, and Patrick might let it go. Or Art could do what he was supposed to do, which was tell his master the truth when he asked a question.

“My grandmother,” he said, finally. “I don’t have… my grandma is the one that raised me.” And Art would’ve given anything, absolutely anything in the world to be lying next to her instead of Patrick right then. “I… I do miss her.”

The truth of it cracked him open, and Art put his hands over his face as he let out a sob. He’d never be able to sleep here. This bed was too soft and this pillow too plush and his collar too new and the air conditioner pumping cold air into the room too unlike the whirring of the singular, overburdened fan in their hotbox of an attic. And he missed her, God, he’d only been apart from her for a few hours and already he missed her like burning.

Then, out of nowhere, arms were wrapping around him, and Art was so surprised he actually stopped crying for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispered. “I’m really sorry. Is there anything that would help?”

And there… was, wasn’t there? Now that Patrick mentioned it, Art felt stupid he hadn’t thought of it first. He wriggled a bit in Patrick’s embrace until he was let up, and then he got off the bed. Behind him, Patrick turned on the lamp again, and by its light Art went to his backpack and began rummaging through it. He took out his grandmother’s handkerchief and was about to return to the bed, but then he paused, wavering.

“Do you promise..." Art said, “do you promise you won’t make fun of me?”

Patrick seemed to take Art in, crouched next to his backpack and teary-eyed. A sad expression crossed his face. “Yeah, man. I promise,” he said gently.

Art reached back into his bag and pulled out the knitted dog. He looked over at Patrick stonily, almost a glare, daring him to go back on his word. Patrick said nothing. Art came back over to the bed and shut off the light before climbing in. He spread the handkerchief over his pillow and curled up on his side, hugging the dog against his chest.

After a second, Art felt the bed shift as Patrick scooted up behind him, close but not quite touching.

“Better?” Patrick asked quietly.

“Yeah. Thanks,” Art said with a sigh.

“You don’t have to thank me, it’s not like I did anything,” Patrick said. Art didn’t respond, just closed his eyes. And whether it was the result of the sleepless night and emotional day, his grandmother’s scent in his nose, or the warmth of Patrick’s body on his back, Art did eventually fall asleep in his too-new collar on the too-plush pillow in the too-soft bed in Patrick’s too-cool bedroom.

Chapter Text

When the alarm clock rang, Art turned it off and slid out of bed feeling much better, the previous night’s despair now more like a quiet ache in his chest. Patrick blinked his eyes open, made a muzzy noise, and rolled over, pulling his pillow over his head. Art carefully tucked away his handkerchief and stuffed dog back in his bag, dressed himself, and then walked around Patrick’s bedroom, collecting the dirty dishes that were living on various surfaces there. He went down the stairs cautiously – no way was he going to let himself shatter any of those dishes, not on his first day there – and took a couple of wrong turns on the way to the kitchen, unfamiliar with the layout of the house, but he did ultimately manage to get there on time.

He was still the last to breakfast, judging by the number of chairs. Four people were sitting around the table, and there was a place for Art and one for Nadine, who was fussing with something at the stove. She looked over when Art came in, though, and immediately walked up to relieve him of his armload.

“These are from Patrick’s room?” she asked, and when he nodded, she unexpectedly leaned in and smacked a kiss onto his forehead with a mwah. “Aren’t you a baby angel!” Art shook his head slightly in surprise as Nadine brought the dishes to the sink. Then he turned to survey the people at the table.

Besides Max, who nodded hello to him, looking amused by Nadine’s shenanigans, three women he didn’t know were sitting there. There was a middle-aged woman whose short brown hair was shot through with gray, a younger redhead who was grinning at him, and a very pretty girl who looked maybe high school-aged. The last bobbed her head to indicate the free seat next to her, and Art sat down.

“Good morning,” he said quietly.

“Good morning!” the older woman said, and the others repeated it in their own time. “You must be Art! We’ve all been excited to meet you. My name is Margaret. I’m Mrs. Zweig’s personal slave.” She turned to look at the younger, red-haired woman next to her.

When the redhead opened her mouth to speak, Art was amazed by the squeak that came out. She sounded like she belonged in an animated movie, voicing a cartoon chipmunk. “I’m Emma, and I’m the maid. And I am very glad to see you because that means I’m no longer responsible for Patrick’s bedroom.”

“Emma,” Margaret chided her without heat.

“I know you’ve seen it so please don’t judge me by that,” Emma went on. “Patrick only lets me in to clean when the moon is full and the stars are aligned and I’ve arm-wrestled him for the privilege. Otherwise, chaos.” Her large eyes went even wider on this last word.

Art laughed a little. “I wasn’t judging you,” he assured her. He looked to the girl next to him, and she smiled beautifully.

“I belong to Patrick’s sister, Marissa,” she told him. “My name’s Angelica.”

Fitting name, Art thought, feeling a little dazed with her looking at him directly. Angelica had very white teeth and very pretty brown eyes and a big head of thick, curly hair that bounced when she moved. Art felt a touch of heat creeping into his cheeks as he gazed back at her. He blinked a few times and looked away, catching Max and Margaret exchanging a knowing glance.

“Uh, it’s nice to meet you,” Art managed. “All of you.”

“We’re all happy to meet you, too,” Margaret said. “You’ll eventually get to know the rest of us back at the main house, but the Zweigs travel with a skeleton crew. Please, help yourself.” She gestured to the food on the table in front of them, a bowl full of hardboiled eggs and a large stack of toast surrounded by various spreads.

“Milk, juice, or water?” Nadine asked him briskly.

“Milk, please,” Art said, and she pulled it out of the refrigerator to pour him some.

Art mostly stayed quiet for the rest of breakfast, listening to the others chat casually about this or that. He did think of a pertinent question at one point, and during a lull in conversation, he caught Max’s eye.

“Um, do you know when I’m supposed to start school?” Art asked.

Max furrowed his brow. “Oh! That’s right, you’re probably used to going all year round, aren’t you? Well, you’ll be going to school with Patrick in the fall. For now he’s on summer vacation, so you are, too.”

“Huh. Thanks.” Art absorbed this. In a way it made sense. He was meant to be Patrick’s personal slave and attend to whatever he needed, and Art couldn’t very well do that if they were separated for half the day. He did kind of question what he was going to do all day, though. He’d never had that kind of time before.

There was something else Art was wondering, too, though he didn’t really want to ask it out loud. He’d finished his food, and he wasn’t really that hungry, but…

Art reached out slowly to grab another piece of toast and place it on his plate. He glanced around to see if there was any reaction, but no one was paying any attention whatsoever. He let himself exhale and snagged the butter. He hadn’t been sure, but it looked like Art was allowed to eat as much as he wanted, which was a relief. Not that the Donaldsons had often deprived him of food or anything, it was just… good to know.

When he got back upstairs, Art roused Patrick, who whined a little but eventually rolled sluggishly out of bed and tromped toward his dresser. At 8:30, Art followed him into the formal dining room where the Zweigs ate. Patrick grabbed a plate from the side table and started dishing out food from a buffet-style spread against the wall. Art noticed that there was a wider selection of food available in here: in addition to toast and two kinds of eggs, there were sausages and potatoes and avocado slices and things. That was a bit different than what he was used to. Some of it was familiar: he and his grandma ate first in the kitchen before serving the Donaldsons in the dining room, just like here, but they had always eaten the same kinds of foods as them. It would’ve been too much work for his grandma to prepare two different meals for them and for the family. Not that Art was going to complain about it, when he’d had as much to eat as he wanted at breakfast.

After a moment of hesitation, Art saw how Max and Margaret and Angelica were standing against the wall behind their respective master, and he positioned himself similarly next to the empty place setting where it seemed Patrick would sit.

“So, what are you boys up to today?” Mrs. Zweig asked Patrick as he was sliding into his chair.

“I’m gonna take Art to the club after breakfast,” Patrick said. “I want to introduce him to my friends and stuff.”

“You mean you want to show off your shiny new toy to the other little kids?” Patrick’s sister asked snidely.

“Shut up, fuckface!”

“Patrick!” Mrs. Zweig cried. “Language! And Marissa, do not bait your brother, please. You were just as excited to have a slave of your own at that age, as I recall.”

“Well, you enjoy yourself today,” Mr. Zweig cut in. “But tomorrow Art has a doctor’s appointment to go to. The previous owners sent over a pretty hefty medical file, but you should always do your own research with matters like this. You remember that,” he advised both Marissa and Patrick, waving a fork.

“Okay, daddy,” Marissa said.

“Mmhm,” Patrick mumbled, and then he looked back up at his father. “Am I going with you guys?”

“I think you should. Art is your responsibility, and you should know if something is wrong.”

Patrick nodded.

Art kept his expression neutral, but inside he was groaning. Seriously, the doctor, again? He wasn’t even, you know, afraid of needles or anything, but he didn’t think he could take another appointment like last time. At least, he hoped it was that kind of doctor. If Art had to talk to another psychologist, he thought he would die on the spot.

***

On the short walk over to “the club,” Patrick carried a Nike bag full of Art-didn’t-know-what, swinging it back and forth jauntily. Art thought maybe he should’ve been carrying it for him, but Patrick hadn’t asked and Art felt too awkward to bring it up.

“So,” Patrick started slyly, “you met Angelica this morning, huh?”

“Yeah, I met her and everybody,” Art said.

“Total fox, right?” Patrick enthused. “She’s, like, basically the hottest person I know.”

“She’s really pretty,” Art agreed.

“Yeah. Amazing rack, too. This one time I actually tried to get her to show me, you know?”

“You did?” Art said, face twisting into a combination of intrigue and horror.

“Yeah.” Patrick grinned. “She completely blew me off, though.”

“Oh,” Art said. He wasn’t sure what else to say and needed a moment to digest that story. On the one hand, it didn’t necessarily bode well for Art and what Patrick might expect of him. On the other hand, at least Angelica had felt like she could blow Patrick off. And maybe Patrick would be so focused on girls that he wouldn’t want anything from Art at all.

Once they got there the sign out front announced that this was a country club, which seemed obvious to Art in hindsight. Patrick flashed a bracelet to someone at the front desk and walked right in. Nobody even looked at Art, which made sense because it seemed like half of the people he passed were slaves, wearing collars and, as he’d suspected, carrying bags for their owners, mostly full of golf clubs and things.

Patrick led him back through a locker room and out to a half-occupied set of tennis courts, then made a beeline for a group of four boys who looked about their age. Two were on the sidelines, stretching, and another two were hitting a tennis ball back and forth with little urgency, probably just warming up. One of the boys on the side was wearing a collar.

“Hey,” another called over upon spotting Patrick and Art. “This is the kid?” The boys wandered over into a bunch in front of Patrick, minus the one in the collar, who hung back. Now that he was standing closer, Art could see a fading bruise on his cheek.

“Yeah, this is Art,” Patrick said proudly. He grabbed Art’s shoulder and shook him a little. “I just got him last night.”

“I can’t believe you got a slave before me,” a dark-haired boy complained. “I’m, like, eight months older than you. My parents blow.”

“Yeah, sucks to be you, Ry,” Patrick said with little apparent sympathy.

“Forget Ryan’s shitty parents. You said he can play, right?” the blonde boy demanded. He reached out and grabbed Art’s chin, not roughly but with a proprietary air. He turned Art’s face back and forth, looking him over.

After a long few seconds of this examination, Patrick let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Jesus, dude, hands off the merchandise.” He knocked the boy’s hand away. “Art, these are Ryan and Chris. And the total butthole touching your face is Mitchell. Will belongs to him, the poor fuck.” Back a ways, Will nodded at Art. Mitchell gave Patrick the finger.

“Fuck you, Zweig.”

“Uh, hey,” Art greeted them timidly.

“Anyway,” Patrick said. “Yeah, Art can play. He’s supposed to be pretty good, too.”

“Let’s see it, then,” Mitchell said. “He can play against Will.”

“Fine, but just a couple sets,” Patrick said. “We have better things to do than hang out with you assholes all day.”

“Oh, sure, gotta get back to your busy schedule of beating each other off instead.” It was Patrick’s turn to flip Mitchell off.

Chris finally spoke up, saying, “Okay, are we gonna watch you two give each other the bird a million times, or is someone actually planning on playing tennis this year?” With a little grumbling, the boys stepped apart, and Patrick unzipped his bag to pull out a tennis racket for Art.

Playing to such a judgmental audience, not to mention playing for his master for the first time with no warning, had his stomach in knots. It was therefore to Art’s enormous relief that he took both sets, though Will put up a reasonably good fight. It was actually novel, playing against someone who wasn’t Kaylee or one of her tennis friends, someone Art hadn’t seen play a thousand times before. At least in this setting, not knowing what was coming was kinda fun.

Patrick was visibly pleased. “What did I tell you?” he crowed, slinging an arm around Mitchell's shoulders. Mitchell shook him away, irritated.

“Yeah, he’s fine. It’s just hard to tell with Will playing like such a little bitch.” Art glanced in Will’s direction. He didn’t look worried or even offended. Art supposed he was probably used to Mitchell’s… unique personality. Still, Art was inclined to agree with Patrick’s earlier statement; he felt very lucky he had not been given as a gift to Mitchell.

Patrick gave Art a few minutes to rinse the sweat off his body in the locker room shower, and then they headed out.

“So, what did you think of those guys?” he asked Art as they ambled home.

“They seem cool,” Art said carefully, and Patrick snickered.

“No, they don’t, they seem like total country club douchebags. Mitchell’s just the worst of them. And I would know, I’ve only grown up surrounded by ten thousand guys exactly like that. I don’t really have a choice as far as friends go. I’ve always gone to private school so the kids there are mostly the same. Except they’re from New Jersey so it’s way worse.”

“Oh,” Art said, not sure what to make of that.

“But hey, at least I’ve got you now, right?”

“You definitely have me,” Art agreed. “And I’m probably as far as you’re gonna get from a… ‘country club douchebag.’”

Patrick stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and pivoted toward Art, looking delighted. “Art!” he said. “You swore!”

Art gave him a small smile. “Just don’t tell my grandmother.”

“Your secret is safe with me, my friend,” Patrick said solemnly. They kept walking.

Feeling a little bolder now, Art pointed to the bag over Patrick’s shoulder. “Do you want me to carry that?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I guess you’re kinda supposed to, right?” Patrick swung the bag down and passed it over. “Anyway, what do you want to do today? You know, other than Mitchell’s suggestion,” he added with a wink.

Art skated right past that. “Oh, I dunno. I mean, we’re supposed to do what you want. Right?”

“Guess so,” Patrick agreed. “Well, this place is a beachy tourist trap for people with too much money, but I bet we can find something to do. I haven’t seen that comic book movie that just came out yet.”

“I’ve never actually been,” Art said.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Like, to the movies.”

“You’ve never been to a movie theater?” Patrick asked in disbelief. Art shook his head. The Donaldsons wouldn’t have wasted money on him like that. Maybe the Zweigs had so much cash that their slaves went to the movies and stuff all the time, though Art found that kind of hard to believe. “Okay, let’s drop this shit off. We’re going. Right now.”

***

As it turned out, the more things Art had never done that Patrick got to introduce him to, the happier Patrick was. They went to X-Men and stuffed themselves full of popcorn. Patrick bought him ice cream in a cone, a whole one to himself, because Art had only ever had ice cream in brief, stolen bites when his grandmother was serving it to the family. They went to the drugstore and picked out candies that Art had never tried so he could taste them. Then, when all that junk food made Art race to a trash can to throw up, Patrick only razzed him a little, and Art could tell he felt bad about it after.

Patrick considered their options for what to do next. “Um, we could go to the beach. Do you have a bathing suit?” Art shook his head. He couldn’t recall the last time he'd had one that fit him. “That’s okay, you can borrow one of mine. Actually, do you even know how to swim?”

“Yeah, I do,” Art said, relieved he could report having actually done something, since he was starting to feel like he’d just rolled out of the cabbage patch. “There was this lake nearby I used to go to with my master’s daughter.”

“Right, but you’ve never swam in the ocean before. That’s okay, we just won’t go in too deep,” Patrick reassured him, but Art was still stuck on the words “the ocean.” That’s right, they were in a beach town on the east coast. Art was going to see the Atlantic Ocean. It turned out he didn’t have to go far to do it, either. Once they’d gotten changed in Patrick’s bedroom, he led them out the sliding back door and the ocean was just, bam, there, because obviously the Zweigs’ summer home was on a private beach. Down the way he could see some of their neighbors in lawn chairs and walking around and stuff, but the little stretch behind the Zweig house was deserted.

They were quiet for a little while, Patrick letting Art take it all in as they wiggled their toes in the sand and listened to crying seabirds. “So, what do you think?” he asked at last.

“It’s, uh, big,” Art said, instantly feeling dumb because duh, it was the ocean, how obvious could he be. Patrick quirked his eyebrows like he was thinking something similar, but maybe less mean, like he thought it was just kinda funny.

“Yeah, I guess. Wanna go in?” Art nodded and they dropped their sneakers with their socks balled up inside of them onto the ground and waded in. They groaned and complained to each other about the temperature of the water as they went – apparently even in the height of summer, the ocean in Maine was freaking cold – and then an evil smile spread across Patrick’s face. “Here, I know what’ll help.” He mercilessly dunked Art under the water and yanked him back up, spluttering. “There, now you’re used to it. Right?”

“Jerk,” Art coughed out unthinkingly and then went still, watching his new master’s face. Patrick's smile faltered a little.

“It’s okay, man,” he said. “I don’t care. You can push me back if you want.”

“Oh, uh.” Art hesitated. He didn’t know about that.

“Yeah, okay. It’s cool,” Patrick said, and he slipped under the water of his own volition, coming back up with his hair plastered to his head in a rather silly way. Art wondered if he looked that ridiculous, too. He smiled crookedly, and Patrick mirrored the expression back to him.

They spent the next half hour or so swimming around and scooping up seashells to look at, not straying far from the beach, just as Patrick had promised. Patrick splashed Art relentlessly and managed to coax him into splashing Patrick back. Eventually they escalated to throwing handfuls of wet sand at each other, shouting gleefully when one landed with a particularly good splat.

By the time they climbed out of the water, Art felt drained from running around and overeating and puking and swimming, and he was grateful when Patrick led them back into the house so they could shower.

“You can go first,” Patrick said, waving to the bathroom attached to his room. He flung his wet, still-sandy body down on his bed in a way Art thought was probably unwise – they’d be brushing grains of sand out of the sheets forever that night, trying to get comfortable – and settled back with his arm over his eyes.

Patrick’s shower was fancy, of course, and had a stupid number of options, but Art figured out how to start the water and adjust the temperature, which was all that mattered. There was no plain bar soap like Art was used to using, so he settled for Patrick’s expensive-smelling shower gel and shampoo and stuff because he was fairly certain Patrick wouldn’t mind. He lingered under the spray for longer than he would’ve at the Donaldsons’ house, feeling only a tiny twinge of guilt over wasting the hot water, as Mrs. Donaldson would have scolded him for.

In fresh clothes and now only slightly damp, Art shook Patrick out of his half-doze and switched spots with him, climbing into the bed and feeling warm and good. When he started awake at the feeling of Patrick’s hand on his shoulder, he was disoriented to find more time had passed than he expected.

“Shoot,” Art said, looking at the clock on Patrick’s bedside table. “I think I’m late for dinner.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, I forgot." Patrick winced. “You better go now.”

“Do you think I’ll get in trouble?”

“Uh, I hope not? Sorry,” Patrick said again.

Art gave him a tight smile. He might get slapped or something, but it’s not like he wasn’t used to that. “It’s not your fault,” he said.

He booked it to the kitchen, and when he arrived everyone was already in the middle of dinner. They all looked up at him as he entered the room, pinning him to the spot.

“Sorry,” Art blurted out to the room in general. From the counter where she was eating (Art had not yet seen her sit and was starting to think he just never would), Nadine gave him a reproving look.

“I’ll let you off the hook this time because it’s your first day,” she said, “but if you’re late to dinner again tomorrow, you can go to bed hungry.” Art nodded, chastised, and slid into his seat at the table.

Max snorted. “That is a bald-faced lie, and you know it.” Turning to Art, he added, “Nadine is pathologically incapable of denying a hungry child food.”

“Don’t tell him that!” Nadine protested. “Now who’s gonna give the kid bad habits, huh?”

Art ducked his head to hide his smile and started serving himself from the platters on the table.

***

After attending the Zweigs’ own dinner, the two of them went up to Patrick’s room.

“What do you want to do now?” Patrick asked.

“Whatever you want,” Art returned agreeably.

“Okay. Do you want to play video games? I have Playstation and N64. I have a Dreamcast back at home, too, but not here.”

“We can do that if you want,” Art said, “but I don’t really know how?”

“You’ve never played video games, either?” Patrick said like he thought that was crazy.

“Not really,” Art admitted. He didn’t think Kaylee’s computer games counted, as they mostly involved Barbie or horses or sometimes Barbies on horses.

“We’ve got to fix that,” Patrick said.

Patrick suggested they start with one called Mario Party 2 and picked Art’s character for him. (“You’re a Yoshi man,” Patrick said sagely. “I can tell.”) Even though the computer opponents were on Easy mode and Patrick was clearly also going easy on him, Art proceeded to totally get his ass kicked.

“We’ll work on that,” Patrick said weakly, afterwards, patting Art’s shoulder.

Patrick was just so nice to him, Art thought, like he didn’t know how to be anyone’s master and properly boss them around at all. And he was so surprised when Art hadn’t done this or that fun thing, like he had no real understanding of what a slave’s life was like. Which was odd, wasn’t it? Because Patrick had grown up in a house with a bunch of slaves, from the sounds of it.

“Hey, um,” Art said. “You have lots of slaves back home, right?”

“Yeah, or, you know, my family does,” Patrick agreed.

“And some of them are kids?” Patrick nodded, looking like he was wondering where Art was going with this. “Did you spend a lot of time with them, growing up? Like, did you guys hang out and stuff?” Art asked, thinking of Kaylee.

“Oh, yeah, not really,” Patrick said. “My parents didn’t think slaves were, like, ‘suitable companions’ for me. Which, whatever, I would’ve hung out with them anyway, but I guess they didn’t want to get in trouble or something. I can’t blame them, my dad can be a raging asshole.”

Art made a face. “If they think slaves aren’t ‘suitable companions,’ then why…?” Here he gestured between the two of them.

“Oh, no, you’re totally different,” Patrick said, sitting up on the bed. “They handpicked you because you’re ‘practically perfect in every way,’” he intoned in a prissy British accent.

“What? Me?” Art said.

“Yeah, you, dummy. I was worried you’d be, like, a total goody two shoes or something before I met you. You should’ve heard my dad bragging on the phone to his rich dickhead friends. You’re so studious and smart and obedient and so well-behaved and athletic and blah blah blah. I promise you, he has never once talked about me that way. My parents like you way better than me.”

“Um,” Art said, struck dumb. That did not sound right. Mrs. Donaldson all but made him lie down in the road so Kaylee could walk over him and keep from getting her shoes muddy. There was no way the Zweigs preferred Art to their own son.

“Anyway, even if they didn’t, they were always going to get me a slave in trust for my birthday this year. You’re supposed to teach me responsibility or whatever. It’s actually some kind of status symbol thing, like how last year, when she turned sixteen, they gave my sister an Audi. Does she really need a fancy car like that? No, but it would look weird if they didn’t do it, and that’s all they care about. How stuff looks.”

“I don’t think your parents like me better than you,” Art managed.

“Trust me, they for sure do. My parents basically hate me. I mean, you don’t ship your kid off to boarding school because you want to see them around all the time.”

“Wait, you go to boarding school?” Art asked, feeling jerked around and bewildered by this entire conversation.

Patrick stared at him. “Holy shit, nobody told you. Yeah, man. End of next month, they’re sending me straight to this new school, not even stopping home first. Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy in Florida. I mean, obviously, you’re coming, too.”

Art blinked back at him, boggled. “Your parents are sending me… both of us… to a private boarding school. For tennis.”

“Yup,” Patrick said, popping the p. He looked a little concerned. “What do you, uh, think about that?”

“I have no idea,” Art answered with naked honesty. Patrick thumped him on the back sympathetically.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Honestly, I’m kind of not sure, either.”

***

The next day, in the car on the way to the doctor’s office, Max once more drove with Art in the passenger seat while Mr. Zweig sat in the back with Patrick. When the four of them arrived they spent almost no time in the waiting room; the doctor came right out to shake Mr. Zweig’s hand, and they greeted each other chummily by first name. Apparently that was because they were chums: on the way back to the exam room, the doctor thanked Mr. Zweig for the “great party” the previous week.

Art felt a little self-conscious, sitting there on the exam table in a gown with Mr. Zweig, Patrick, and Max all standing around, although blessedly he’d been given privacy in order to change. At the very least, though, the appointment did not last as long as the one Mr. Donaldson had taken him to in the spring. It was mostly just normal stuff: height, weight, reflexes, listening to Art’s heart and lungs, pressing on his stomach to see if he felt any pain.

Near the end, the doctor picked up a clipboard with a thick stack of papers on it and said, “I’m impressed, the history they sent over was very thorough. He seems perfectly healthy to me. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“They were pretty thorough, but there was one thing I wanted to get checked out,” Mr. Zweig said. Then, “Patrick, go out to the waiting room.”

“Why?”

“Because I told you to. Go on.”

“But you said–”

“I wasn’t asking, Patrick! Get moving.”

“Ugh,” Patrick groaned and stomped out of the room, closing the door in something just short of a slam.

Mr. Zweig turned back to the doctor. “I didn’t see anything in the paperwork about him being checked for signs of sexual abuse. I’d like to have him looked at.”

The doctor frowned. “Bob, really? Is it necessary to put the kid through that? There’s no sign of physical abuse and nothing came up on the psych eval–”

“That psych eval, Jim, come on, get serious. The owner was probably all of five feet away when the guy was conducting it. And anyway, how common do you think it is for slave kids to be molested? Versus how common do you think it is for them to report their master for it? And how about this: how much does that kind of thing fuck a kid up? I want you to take a look because if there’s anything to see, I’m calling the deal off. I’m not leaving my son in the hands of a… psycho of tomorrow.”

The doctor sighed. “Fine, Bob. Suit yourself.” Then, to Art, “This is no fun for anyone, but I promise it’ll be quick. Lie down on your side and bring your knees up toward your chest.”

Art hadn’t liked the sound of any part of that conversation. He shot a nervous glance to Max, but Max was gazing down at the floor, looking troubled. Moving slowly, Art did as he was told.

When he felt the doctor’s hand on him, Art tried to control his breathing, just like he used to when bent over Mr. Donaldson’s knee. In, out, slow. Panicking would only make things worse.

And exactly like the doctor said, it wasn’t fun, but it was pretty quick. And it barely hurt at all, so little you couldn’t even really call it pain. And wasn’t this exactly what his grandma had tried to prepare him for, really? Actually, a lot of the stuff they’d talked about sounded way worse than this. It was okay. Art was fine. He was fine.

“You can sit up now,” said the doctor. To Mr. Zweig, he added, “Everything looks normal. No tearing, no scarring as far as I could see, no sign of anything. Like I said, perfectly healthy kid.”

“That’s what I want to hear,” said Mr. Zweig.

Art blinked back tears as he dressed himself even though nothing bad had even really happened, definitely nothing to cry about. He looked in the mirror before he left and tried to compose his face into a normal expression. Everything was fine. He exited the exam room.

On the way out to the car, Mr. Zweig and Max walked ahead while Patrick and Art lagged a little behind.

Patrick got close to Art and whispered, “What happened after they kicked me out?”

Art just took a ragged breath and didn’t look at him. He was supposed to tell his master the truth when he asked a question, but nothing could have dragged the truth out of Art’s mouth in that moment. If Patrick finally wised up enough to remember that he owned Art and hit him for refusing to answer, then so be it. But Patrick didn’t say or do anything else, and then they were getting in the car.

***

Back in Patrick’s bedroom, Patrick was looking nervous for the first time that Art had ever seen, tapping his leg rapidly.

“What, uh, what do you want to do now?”

“I don’t know,” said Art.

“Okay. Well, we could go to the public beach? It’s more crowded than the one here, obviously, but it’s more fun, too.”

Art didn’t respond.

“Or we could go back to the tennis courts? Those guys probably won’t be there, it’d just be us. We could play against each other?”

“We can do whatever you want, Patrick,” Art said dully.

“Yeah, okay,” Patrick said. “I mean, if you’re not up for that stuff, we can just hang out here. Even though it’s totally boring around here.” He attempted a smile.

Art looked around the room, at the computer and the TV and the video game systems and the stereo and the packed bookshelf and thought savagely that if Patrick was so bored when he was here, maybe it was possible he just wasn’t very bright?

The second this traitorous thought crossed his mind, a wave of guilt crashed into Art. What the hell was wrong with him? Not only was it a nasty thing to think about his master, it was a nasty thing to think about Patrick, who had been absolutely nothing but good to Art since he’d arrived. Tears started to prickle in his eyes again.

They must’ve been visible because Patrick looked desperate now. “Man, come on. Are you really not going to tell me what happened?”

Art shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Then… tell me what you want to do right now,” Patrick pleaded.

Art really thought about it. They were supposed to do what his master wanted, he knew that. But he just felt so, so tired, and the thought of doing any of the stuff Patrick suggested made him feel even more deadened. What Art wanted was to melt into the floor. What Art wanted was to not have to be a person right now.

“I think I maybe just need to sleep,” Art said, because that was the closest thing he could think of that he could actually say.

“Sure, I guess we can do that,” Patrick said, looking a little puzzled.

Art peered at him. “It’s the middle of the day. I’m sure you don’t want to sleep.”

“Not really,” Patrick admitted.

“Well, you should go do whatever you want.”

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t really want to do that stuff by myself,” Patrick said. “I… guess I don’t really like being alone that much? That’s kind of why I was so excited for you to get here, so we could do stuff.”

Art considered that for a moment, what Patrick’s life was probably like before the last couple of days. Parents he thought hated him, a sister he didn’t get along with, friends he didn’t actually like, and the kids he lived with all avoiding him out of fear of his dad. It all sounded pretty lonely for someone that didn’t like to be alone. No wonder he wanted Art to like him so bad.

“I don’t know if I really need to sleep,” Art said. “Maybe you could just lie down with me? And we could talk or whatever?”

“Sure,” Patrick said, and so the two of them settled onto the bed on top of the covers. For a while they were quiet, a comfortable silence. Then Patrick said, “Would it make you feel better if you had your… I don’t actually know. What is that thing? That stuffed animal thing?”

“It’s a dog,” Art said.

“Really?” Patrick wrinkled his nose. “How can you tell? I thought maybe it was a sheep or something.”

“I thought you promised you wouldn’t make fun of it,” Art countered, not feeling particularly upset by this.

“No, I promised I wouldn’t make fun of you,” Patrick corrected him. “I never said anything about not making fun of your weird dog-sheep.”

Art laughed, something that had felt impossible just a few minutes ago. “Well, it didn’t come from a store. I’m sure your favorite stuffed animal was the most expensive one around and looked exactly like it was supposed to.”

“Bear-Bear was very bear-shaped,” Patrick agreed.

“Bear-Bear?”

“No one ever said I was a creative child. Why, what incredibly brilliant name did you give to your dog-thing?”

“Oh, it, uh… doesn’t have one.”

“Well, maybe you should get off Bear-Bear’s back, then,” Patrick said, and Art laughed again, warmth blooming in his stomach.

He felt really, really grateful for Patrick.

Chapter Text

Art’s next couple of weeks with Patrick were much the same as that first day. He made some headway cleaning Patrick’s room, although Patrick thwarted him at every turn, disliking it when he lost Art’s attention for more than two minutes at a time. Patrick was right about the public beach being more fun, and they spent a lot of time there running around and playing volleyball with random kids they met. Patrick took Art to the boardwalk, the arcade, even the bookstore, because he could tell Art was interested even if he was not. They spent a day wandering around tourist shops, looking at the weird stuff Mainers hawked to out-of-state folks, which seemed to include absolutely anything with a lobster or a moose on it as well as anything that made a pun out of the word “Mainely.” The two of them got kicked out of one place by an annoyed store manager when they laughed themselves sick over some “lighthouse-shaped” gummies they’d found that were really more shaped like something else.

Additionally, Patrick and Art spent at least some time nearly every day playing tennis, sometimes with Patrick’s friends but mostly just against each other. Patrick was significantly better than Art and won their matches consistently. Art did try his hardest, but there was also a little part of him that was relieved every time he lost. He wasn't sure how Patrick would feel about losing to his own slave.

“How long have you been playing?” Art asked Patrick one afternoon as they were leaving the club.

“Oh, forever, like since I was really little. My dad’s more into golf, but he plays tennis, too, so he got me into it. Being good at tennis is basically the only thing he likes about me.” That made sense, Art thought, if he was sending Patrick to school for it. “I want to go pro when I get older. I’ve never really wanted to do anything else. What about you?”

“Um, I think I was about seven when Kaylee started playing and they wanted me to practice with her.”

“No, I meant what did you want to do when you grew up?”

“Uh, Patrick, when I grow up I’m going to do whatever you tell me to, remember?” Art said, pointing to his collar.

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Okay, but you know what I mean. When you were little. There must’ve been something you wanted to do.”

That wasn’t exactly how it worked for slaves, Art thought. Many did have proper jobs, rented out to businesses and things so their owners could collect their wages, but it’s not like they got to pick. When Art had pictured the future as a little kid, he’d mostly thought about working for the Donaldsons alongside his grandmother; only he’d fantasized that as a grown-up he’d be able to work so hard and so fast that he could do his grandma’s chores as well as his own, and she’d be able to spend all day with her feet up, reading books, like she liked to do.

When he conveyed this to Patrick, feeling kind of embarrassed because it was such a stupid and childish line of thinking, Patrick only gave him a small, slightly sad smile. They didn’t talk too much about Art’s grandma. He missed her like crazy, and he knew Patrick could tell, but they were trying not to make a big deal about it.

“What’s your grandma’s name?” Patrick asked him.

“Lillian.”

“Lillian Donaldson?”

“No, Lillian Harper.”

“Oh, and Donaldson was your owners’ name, right?”

“Yeah. I actually don’t know why the Donaldsons decided to give me their last name. Maybe because Art Harper doesn’t sound as good. But I guess if you own someone you can name them whatever you want.”

“Yeah, my parents were thinking about changing your name when we got you.”

Art raised his eyebrows. “They wanted me to be a Zweig?”

“Nah,” said Patrick. “We were gonna change your first name. Still might. How do you feel about Garfunkel?"

Art laughed and shoved Patrick so he collided with a store window. Patrick whined an ow and rubbed his upper arm. A lady a few feet away on the sidewalk shot them a glare, looking pointedly from Patrick to Art’s collar.

That was more what he was used to. If Art had ever put his hands on Kaylee like that, she would have screamed bloody murder, and Art would’ve gotten the ass-beating of a lifetime. Patrick was just beaming at him like Art had done something terrific.

A car rumbled past, and seeing the lobster on the license plate made Art realize something. “Hey,” he said, “how come I’ve never seen your family eat lobster? Isn’t that, like, a big rich person thing up here? Maine lobsters?”

“It is, but we’re Jewish,” Patrick explained. “I mean, we’re only Reform, so we don’t keep kosher kosher or anything, but we don’t eat pigs and shellfish and stuff. Or, my parents don’t. I eat bacon whenever I can get it.”

Art followed… some of that. He’d heard of keeping kosher but had no idea what “kosher kosher” would entail. Nor did he know what Patrick meant by “reform.”

Something in Art’s face must have given this away because Patrick was grinning at him. “You’re from Indiana, right? Have you ever even, like, met a Jewish person?”

“Um, I’m not sure? Nobody who’s ever said so, but how would I know?”

“Oh, the horns are a dead giveaway,” Patrick answered with a wicked smile.

“Horns…?” Art shook his head, mystified.

Patrick snickered. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just this stupid old racist stereotype or something. Sorry, I probably shouldn’t even be telling you stuff like that, since you don’t know. My parents were worried I’d be a bad influence on you. They’re probably right.”

Privately, Art thought they were definitely right, but he wondered if someone could be a bad influence in a good way.

“So how did you like Indiana, anyway?” Patrick asked.

Art took his time answering. “I’m not really sure. I didn’t actually see a lot of it? I barely ever left my town. I just went to school and to church and the grocery store and wherever Kaylee dragged me.”

“But in comparison to here? Did you like it better?”

Art thought about it. He missed his grandmother, of course, so much. But otherwise…

“No,” he said. “Here is better.”

Patrick smiled at him, and he smiled back.

***

Late that night, after they’d shut off the lights and Art had nearly dropped off to sleep, he was awoken fully by a series of strange noises. There was a rustling of covers from Patrick’s side of the bed and an odd skin-on-skin sound he didn’t recognize. Art reached out and turned on the lamp on Patrick’s bedside table.

“Patrick, what are you doing?” Art asked, squinting at him in the light. He was wide-eyed and frozen, looking caught.

“Um,” Patrick said. “I was, uh… jerking off. Because I thought you were asleep.”

“Oh,” Art said, face heating instantly to a bright red. “Sorry. I didn’t… know that.”

Patrick had no shyness, though (as evidenced by the fact that he was constantly peeing with the bathroom door open), and the embarrassment was already leaving his expression, replaced by curiosity. “Do you ever do that?”

“No,” Art muttered, turning away, his blush somehow finding a way of going even deeper. “I’ve never.”

Patrick looked at him for a beat, watching his face. “I could show you how,” he ventured, “if you want.”

Art wet his lips, heart beating faster. “Show me, like…?”

“On myself,” Patrick said quickly. “Just, you know, show you what to do so you can do it.”

Okay, that was different, if it was just Art doing it to himself. This was something he was aware good slaves did not do, and nor did good Christians for that matter. But Patrick was neither, and he was Art’s master, and if Patrick wanted him to do this, then he should. Right?

“Okay,” Art whispered.

“Yeah?” Patrick perked up. “Okay. So, first, take off your pajamas and boxers, I guess.” Art obeyed, sliding them down his legs while still under the blanket and dropping them off the side of the bed. “Now you have to get hard. Do you know how to do that?”

“I think so,” Art said, sliding a hand down between his legs. He hadn’t done it intentionally before now, but he’d gotten boners, and honestly it didn’t take much. He rubbed a hand kind of aimlessly over himself, and his dick started to wake up basically right away. “Okay, I’m getting there.”

“Cool,” said Patrick. “Uh, so next you want a little bit of…” He grabbed a bottle of hand lotion from next to Art on the bedside table. He gestured for Art to hold out his hand, and Art did. Patrick squirted a small amount into each of their palms and put the bottle back. Then he pushed his bedsheets aside, and suddenly Art was looking at Patrick’s dick. He looked away for a second and then back because that was kind of the point of this exercise. Art tried to think if he’d ever seen anyone else’s penis before. Not in person, he was pretty sure, maybe in an anatomy text or something. No way would the Donaldsons have ever let him or Kaylee watch that kind of movie, either. Patrick’s was bigger than his, he noticed, and circumcised. The sight made the nerves in his belly start doing weird stuff.

“What, um, what now?” Art asked.

“It’s not complicated or anything. You mostly just move your hand kind of up and down, like this?” Patrick demonstrated. “But you can also, you know, try stuff. You pretty much do whatever feels good.”

Art took a deep breath and then moved the covers off of himself so that Patrick could see him, too. “Like this? And that’s it?”

“Well,” said Patrick, “it helps if you think about somebody. Somebody hot, that turns you on. Was there someone you liked back home?”

“No, not really,” Art said with a shrug.

“Okay.” Patrick considered. “I saw that video of you playing tennis. What about that girl you were playing? She was pretty cute.”

“Gross!” Art said. “No, dude, that was Kaylee, and she’s like… like… my sister.”

“Okay, someone else,” Patrick said. “Oh, I know. What about Angelica? She’s a babe. I’ve seen her hanging out on the beach with Marissa in this little bikini. Her boobs looked so good, you would not believe.”

Art felt a little squirm of guilt, thinking of Angelica this way after she’d been nothing but polite to him. But he really could picture her very nice boobs in a bathing suit, and it was working for him. His hand sped up. “Yeah, that’s good,” he said.

“Yeah, good,” Patrick echoed. They didn’t speak for a couple minutes, then Art started to feel different. More intense, kind of, and like he wanted to go faster.

“I feel like I’m–” The sensation took him by surprise, how good it felt, this flood of warmth that made his toes curl. “Whoa,” he said as it ended. Then Art looked down at his belly and felt a little perplexed. He guessed he knew that was going to happen, it was just… more than he expected. What did you do with it all?

He looked over at Patrick, who was laughing a little at him, hand still moving. “Shit, sorry, I should’ve warned you. You want to have something ready, a sock or a t-shirt or something. Like this.” He pulled out a sock from next to him on the bed. “And then you just, ah.” A few more seconds and Patrick was finishing, too, only into the sock. He lay panting for a moment, then he looked back over at Art and laughed again. “Here, let me get you some tissues.” He went to grab a box from the bathroom, and Art cleaned himself up.

Patrick settled back into bed, rolling onto his side to face Art. “You good?” he asked.

Art moved onto his side, too, to mimic Patrick’s position. “Yeah, I’m good,” he said. For a minute they just looked at each other, breathing the same air and watching each other’s faces. Art really did feel good, relaxed and also really close to Patrick.

Apparently Patrick was feeling the same way because he said, voice lowered, “I... I want to know stuff about you. Everything. Like, you’ve told me about your grandmother. Has it always been just the two of you? No other family?”

Art selected his words carefully. “My mom was the youngest in a really big family; she had, like, eight siblings, but I never met any of them or spoke to them or anything. I think they all got sold off, or they live with the Donaldsons’ other relatives. I don’t have any little brothers or sisters because my mom died right after having me.”

Patrick looked glum. “That must’ve been hard on your grandma.”

“Yeah, it was, I guess,” Art said, picking at his fingernails, “but she never wanted me to know it. She basically never cried or complained or anything. She always told me she loved me and that what happened to my mom wasn’t my fault.”

“It wasn’t,” Patrick said softly.

“I know,” Art said, which was mostly true. He hesitated, then he wiggled out of bed and went over to his backpack where it was sitting against the wall. He returned with something clutched in his hands, sliding back under the covers. “This is my mom and grandma,” he told Patrick, holding out the photo for him to examine.

“And that’s you?” Patrick asked, accepting it gingerly and studying it.

“Yeah,” said Art.

“Your mom’s a total MILF,” Patrick joked with a cautious little smirk. Art rolled his eyes.

“Idiot,” he said, and he took back the photograph.

Patrick’s expression turned more serious. “No, but actually your mom looks, like, crazy young. How old was she?”

“Oh,” Art said. “Yeah, I think she was maybe seventeen?”

“Seven– holy shit, dude.” Patrick looked aghast. “That really is young. Did something, like, happen?”

“She got an infection after I was born. ‘Sepsis,’ my grandma said.”

“No, what I meant was…” Patrick stopped short. “Sorry, but I meant was there a reason she got pregnant so young?”

“I don’t know if it’s that weird,” Art said, feeling a touch defensive. “At sixteen she was an adult, and they wanted to breed her right away.”

Patrick grimaced. “Right. Gotcha.” Art felt a little wave of irritation overwhelm the affection he’d been feeling before. Patrick could be so out of touch with reality, he thought. At least what reality was like for slaves. He got up and tucked the picture back into his backpack.

When he climbed back into bed, Art rolled away from Patrick. “I’m kinda tired,” he said. “Could we get some sleep now?”

“Sure,” Patrick said. After a moment, he moved up behind Art and slung an arm around his waist. Art didn’t protest.

***

Overall, in Art’s opinion, things had been going really, really well. When everything went to shit, it happened like this: one afternoon in mid-August, he and Patrick were hanging out on the beach behind the Zweig house, half-heartedly building a sandcastle. Meaning that Art was attempting to focus on building the sandcastle while Patrick mostly ignored it and stared across the beach.

“Hey,” Patrick said after a while, elbowing Art. “Do you see that?”

Actually, Art had been trying really hard not to look at “that,” but at Patrick’s words he gave in and turned his face in the indicated direction.

Marissa and Angelica were laying out on lounge chairs, napping in the sun. Angelica was on her stomach with her arms over her head and the strings of her bikini top undone – to prevent tan lines or whatever, Art supposed. Her golden-brown skin was gleaming with oil, and he could see the side of her breast, the perfect curve of it smushed up against the chair beneath her.

Art turned away again before he had to walk into the water to calm himself down. “I see it,” he told Patrick, voice tight.

Patrick smirked mischievously. “I dare you to go take it,” he said.

Art’s brow creased. He didn't understand Patrick’s meaning, so he looked back at Angelica. Then he saw the “it” that Patrick was referring to: Angelica’s bikini top was no longer pinned underneath her but instead caught between the slats of the lounge chair, almost on the ground. All Art would have to do would be to reach underneath the chair and… pull.

Art whipped his head back toward Patrick in dismay. “Patrick, no!” he hissed. “We can’t!”

“Come on,” Patrick whispered back. “Don’t be such a wuss. It’ll be funny. And I bet you we’ll get an even better look.”

“No,” said Art. “Uh-uh, no way.”

“Hey, who’s supposed to be in charge around here, anyway?” Patrick said, his smile practically feral. “I’m your master, aren’t I? And I say you should do it. So do it.” He gave Art a little shove.

Art stood up slowly, staring at Angelica. He gave Patrick one more pleading look, but Patrick just jerked his chin in the direction of the girls.

Art picked his way across the sand, legs shaking. Once he was within a foot or so of Angelica’s chair, he knelt down at her side. He reached a trembling hand underneath the chair, and it was the work of a couple brief seconds to tug the fabric free and pull it toward himself. And as it turned out, Art had been half right: Angelica appeared to be fully asleep.

Marissa, however, was not.

It was among the most terrifying moments of Art’s life, when Marissa opened her eyes and saw him kneeling next to Angelica, bikini top clutched in his hand. Once she understood what she was seeing, she gave him an absolutely venomous look.

“You little pervert,” said Marissa. “I will fucking kill you!” She made to slap Art in the face, but he scrambled backward just in time.

“RUN!” Patrick howled from across the beach, but Art did not need the encouragement. He took off like no tennis match had ever induced him to do. He couldn’t help but look behind him, though, and when he did – well, mission accomplished. More successfully than Patrick had dreamed of, even. Because her mistress’s scream had woken Angelica in a flash, and she sat up suddenly, instinctively, and bared her chest to the world. In the brief moment when he was looking back, Art saw it in all its naked glory, and then he saw Angelica snap her arms up to cover it as tears filled her eyes.

As if he didn’t already feel like the biggest pile of shit in the world.

Art chased Patrick down the beach, past the side of the house to the driveway and down the street. Before they got far, though, he heard a shriek that struck even greater terror into his heart:

“I’m telling Dad!”

Patrick and Art ran until they couldn’t, bent over with hands braced against their knees, taking heaving breaths.

“Oh my God,” Art panted. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah,” Patrick wheezed back. “That… that’s not good.”

The two of them wandered around town for a good hour and a half, not that there were a lot of places they could go, barefoot and in just their swim trunks. They gloomily floated ideas like running away to join the circus or living in the sewers like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but they did eventually agree that these were hopeless and slinked their way back home.

Despite the fact that Art had been expecting it, the sight still made his heart sink through the floor: the moment they got in the door, Max was waiting for them.

“When you’re dressed,” he said, “Mr. Zweig will see you both in the study.”

They didn’t exactly hurry as they went up the stairs to Patrick’s room to put on their clothes. Art also used the bathroom up there because, if he was being honest, the idea of going into Mr. Zweig’s study was making him feel like wetting himself wasn’t totally one hundred percent off the table. Before they left to head downstairs, Art reached out and grabbed Patrick’s hand. Patrick gave him a squeeze and a grim look. Then they went to face certain doom.

Unlike Mr. Donaldson’s small, cluttered office, “the study” looked like something from a TV show: dark wood, shelves full of books built into the wall. All that was missing from the scene was a sepia globe, Art thought joylessly. Max stood in the corner, stone-faced.

From behind his desk Mr. Zweig indicated a couch on the side of the room. They sat. He didn’t make them wait long before he walked over to stand in front of them.

“You are aware,” he said to Patrick, “that Angelica belongs to your sister?”

“Yeah,” Patrick answered quietly.

“And how many times would you say we’ve talked about not touching your sister’s things?”

“A lot?” Patrick answered, squirming a bit.

Mr. Zweig turned toward Art, eyes going colder. “And you certainly shouldn’t be touching my daughter’s things.” Art swallowed hard and lowered his gaze.

Addressing both of them, Mr. Zweig said, “Don’t think I don’t know whose idea this was. But, Patrick, I’ve spent twelve years trying to impress upon you that your actions affect other people. And I think it’s about time that you learned that lesson. Don’t you?”

Patrick said nothing and looked down at the floor.

Mr. Zweig walked over to his desk, where he looked at Art and crooked a finger, beckoning him. Art deliberately brushed against Patrick as he stood, just to make contact. He approached the desk.

“I’m guessing you know what to do. Take down your pants and underwear and bend over the desk,” Mr. Zweig said. Art did so, bracing his hands on it. In his peripheral vision he could see Mr. Zweig walking over to a cabinet in the corner. Then Art made himself look ahead at the wall.

He kept on looking ahead when he heard Patrick say, “Wait, dad, no, please.” It wouldn’t help to see what was coming. He knew that much.

And in that moment, Art thought he understood why he had really been purchased. Patrick was probably right about him being a status symbol, a box to check. But it seemed to him that it wasn’t exactly responsibility that the Zweigs wanted from Patrick.

It was more like leverage.

***

Art was reminded a little bit of when he’d learned how to ride a bicycle. He remembered how confident he'd felt, racing through the park alongside Kaylee, trying to get ahead of her. How steady. And then one day Mr. Donaldson had decided it was time to take the training wheels off his bike, and all of a sudden Art was not confident, he was not steady. He was, in fact, hitting the concrete sidewalk hard and scraping the skin off his palms, leaving his hands full of dirt and oozing blood.

That was a little bit similar to the experience of going from Mr. Donaldson’s belt to the heavy strap that Mr. Zweig apparently favored. Art wasn’t literally bleeding, though, just badly, badly bruised.

Once he was back upstairs in Patrick’s bed, and once he had stopped sobbing in Patrick’s arms (as Patrick nuzzled him and whispered frantic apologies into his hair), Art managed to get down the Tylenol and water that Patrick held out to him and accepted the stuffed dog that Patrick had pulled from his backpack without being asked. Then he laid down on his stomach underneath the ice Patrick had brought him.

“Art, seriously,” Patrick said, wringing his hands helplessly now that he had run out of things to do, "I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I know,” Art said. “I know you are, Patrick.”

“I swear to God I’ll never do anything like that ever again,” Patrick continued fervently.

“Yeah?” said Art, exhausted. “I’d really appreciate that, man.”

Patrick collapsed onto the bed next to him and edged his way over to put his forehead against Art’s. “I’m gonna take better care of you from now on,” he promised, voice soft.

“Thanks,” Art whispered back, and then he passed out for sixteen hours.

***

Art spent the next several days hiding in Patrick’s bedroom, first because he was in too much pain to move from the bed and then because he was too miserable to try. He kept waiting for someone to come yell at him for failing to attend to Patrick at mealtimes, but Patrick must have run interference because no one ever did. In that time, it was kind of like Patrick was actually Art’s slave, going around fetching him food and drinks and whatever else he might need, doing whatever he could think of to comfort or distract or entertain him: Patrick declared Art much improved in Mario Party 2 and got him started on Crash Team Racing. Whenever they could catch it on TV they watched South Park, which was very funny and also possibly explained why Patrick and his friends swore so much. Once Art could lie on his back, the two of them stared up at the ceiling together and looked for shapes in the texture there as if it were a cloudy sky. Patrick even read to Art – which was how Art knew he was truly sorry, since it seemed like Patrick really didn’t like to read – mostly from Give Yourself Goosebumps books, pressing Art to make all the choices and teasing him when his decisions got them killed.

Not that Patrick had anything better to do, of course. He was grounded for his own part in the Bikini Incident, restricted to the house for a full week.

The first night Art felt well enough to go down to dinner, he braced himself for it but still winced at his frosty reception in the kitchen. A silence fell as he entered the room, and he got looks that were, let’s say, somewhat less friendly than he’d grown accustomed to from the other slaves. Art settled into his usual place at the table, sitting carefully, and he looked to his right. He wasn’t sure whether she even wanted to hear from him, but…

He decided to risk it. “Um. Angelica?” he said, voice low.

“It’s fine,” Angelica said at once, sounding a little stiff. “Patrick already told me he made you do it. You don’t have to apologize, I understand.”

Art was quiet for a moment, fidgeting with his spoon. “Yeah,” he said finally, “but I’m really sorry, anyway.”

Angelica actually looked at him for the first time since he came into the kitchen. She must have decided that he was sincere because, after a long pause, she simply said, “Okay.”

A few seconds later, Art felt a hand nudge lightly against the side of his knee. He slipped his right hand under the table and brushed the pads of his fingertips against Angelica’s. It was more forgiveness than he’d expected, and he was glad to have it.

The ambient temperature in the room seemed to rise a few degrees, and conversation resumed around him.

The final word on the matter came after dinner, when Max caught Art’s attention out in the hall and pulled him aside.

“I know you apologized, and I’m glad you did,” said Max. “But there’s something I want you to try to remember for the future, okay? It’s just… it’s a very small world, for people like us. And we should try hard to make it a better one. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Art said. Max nodded and squeezed Art’s shoulder before walking away.

No one at the Zweig family dinner commented on Art’s reappearance behind Patrick, although Marissa did glower at him in a way that implied she was imagining feasting on his entrails. The only acknowledgment of Art and Patrick’s misadventure came while the Zweigs were eating dessert:

“Only one more week until you start your new school,” Mrs. Zweig noted to Patrick. “Are you excited?”

“I guess,” Patrick said, pushing a piece of peach cobbler around with his fork.

“We’re glad to hear that,” Mr. Zweig said. “But we want you to remember that even when you’re away, we still expect you to be on your best behavior. The school will call to let us know if you’re not, and the consequences will be exactly the same.” His eyes drifted to Art as he said so. Art looked straight ahead so as to avoid eye contact. “Do you understand?”

Patrick, on the other hand, looked his father directly in the face as he answered coolly, “Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”

Later, lying on their sides in Patrick’s bed, looking at each other in the low lamplight, Patrick raised the subject of this warning.

“I’m really sorry about my dad,” he said. “He’s the fucking worst.”

“Mm,” Art hummed noncommittally. Whatever Mr. Zweig had done, he was Art’s master, and Art couldn’t quite bring himself to agree out loud. After a pause, though, he made a tentative joke. “He is kinda starting to make me appreciate my own, I guess.”

Patrick’s brow furrowed. “Your dad?” Art nodded, and Patrick went on: “You’ve never talked about him.”

Art reached up to play with a loose thread on his pillowcase, watching it so he didn’t have to meet Patrick’s eye. “I kind of have,” he said. “It’s, um, Mr. Donaldson? My old master?”

“Oh,” Patrick said. A couple seconds later his hand came up to cover Art’s and hold it. Art finally flicked his eyes to Patrick’s face. His expression was sympathetic. “Then I’m sorry about that, too.”

“Yeah,” Art said softly.

“So, um,” Patrick said, “if Mr. Donaldson is your dad, then Kaylee…?”

“She’s my sister,” Art confirmed. “My half-sister.”

“Does she know that?” Patrick asked.

“I guess so.” Art frowned. “I’m not even sure. We never talked about it. It’s– it’s actually really hard for me to talk about this stuff.” He looked Patrick in the eye and inched a bit closer to him. “It’s different with you, though. Like… I feel like I can tell you anything. You know?”

The next thing he knew, Patrick’s lips were on his. Art’s eyes went wide, and when Patrick pulled back, his were, too.

“Was that–” Patrick licked his lips, “was that okay?”

Art couldn’t help but smile a little at the question. It was absurd. Patrick really was such a sweet doofus, sometimes. Didn’t he know he owned Art? Didn’t he know he could have anything he wanted?

“Of course it’s okay,” said Art.

Patrick smiled back, looking relieved. Then he leaned in to kiss Art again.

Chapter Text

Spring 2004

Art put his foot down with Patrick regarding exactly one subject, which meant that the two of them had exactly one recurring argument, which arose twice a month at minimum. Art’s logic was this:

“You already barely pay attention in class. If I start doing your homework for you, you won’t learn anything, and then you’ll fail all your tests, and then your dad will go berserk on both of us, and then you’ll spend your summer locked in the house while I spend it in the fucking hospital.”

Every time, Patrick would concede that this logic was sound and, after some grousing, do his own work. Yet every time, Art knew it would come up again. And again. And again.

“You know, this would go a lot faster if you helped me out…” Patrick wheedled one afternoon in their dorm room, indicating the beginnings of a lab report’s draft in front of him.

Art put the cloth in his hands down onto the bed to provide his full attention. "Patrick," he said, voice earnest, “I would be more than happy to help you.”

Patrick just looked at him without hope.

“Unless you mean do it for you. In which case you can forget it,” Art finished. He resumed mending a torn seam on one of Patrick’s shirts– well, officially it was Patrick’s shirt. It had actually torn while Art was wearing it. The Zweigs bought him clothes of his own, of course, but Patrick’s wardrobe was about four times as big, so Art dressed himself from both of their things indiscriminately.

Patrick turned back to his report. “I think you might be the worst slave in the world.”

In the split second that followed this statement, Art made the decision to commit. He was going for the fucking Oscar this time.

Art stopped what he was doing as if struck. He swallowed audibly, and he arranged his features into his best approximation of “subtly wounded,” just barely glancing up at Patrick before lowering his eyes again. “But you said…” he let himself trail off.

Patrick lifted his head, brow furrowing in consternation.

Art looked Patrick square in the eye now. He couldn’t drum up tears on command, which was a shame. But he tightened his jaw, adding a bit of anger to the formula. “You said you loved me.”

Patrick went comically still, pencil in midair. “What?” he said.

Art maintained the hurt and offended expression. “You told me that you loved me. Don’t you remember? This morning,” he said. Then Art threw his head back, closed his eyes, and moaned pornographically. “'Baby, please, yes, so good for me, love you–'”

Art had woken Patrick with his mouth that morning, mostly because Patrick went nuts for it, but also a little bit because “half-asleep Patrick” said some of the sappiest shit imaginable, and Art loved to make fun of him for that.

With his eyes shut, he couldn’t actually see the tackle coming, but he'd been fully anticipating it. Patrick launched himself up from his desk and across their pushed-together XL twin beds to wrestle Art down to the mattress.

“Oh, that had nothing to do with you,” Patrick explained as he grappled with Art. “You caught me in the middle of a dream about Charisma Carpenter, of course I professed my love.” Art fought back with spirit before allowing Patrick to pin him with his hands above his head. Patrick surveyed his grinning face. “Proud of yourself, are you?”

Art gave a modest shrug. “A little.”

“Uh-huh.” Then Patrick’s eyelids dropped, and he rocked his hips down against Art’s. Voice low, he said, “You’re working me up again, you know that?”

Art lifted his chin, and Patrick obliged him with a kiss, deep and messy. Art broke away, turning his face to kiss up Patrick’s jaw. When he reached the hinge, he swiped his tongue lightly over the shell of Patrick’s ear to make him shudder. Then, letting warm breath puff over Patrick’s skin, Art whispered, matching that same low tone, “Finish your homework.”

Patrick threw his own head back now in a loud groan. He released Art’s wrists and sat back on his heels. “You’re a monster.” Then he returned to his desk to lick his wounds while Art picked up the shirt and needle and thread once more, watching Patrick go with amusement.

There was quiet for several minutes. Art finished with the seam and started tidying up the latest accumulation of dirty clothes, abandoned textbooks, and outright trash. He and Patrick were locked into the kind of eternal, epic power struggle that was the stuff of sci-fi and fantasy, only instead of good versus evil, it was more like “human living conditions” versus “biohazard.”

Patrick broke the silence again, discarding his pencil after jotting down what appeared to Art to be about four lines. “Okay, how about this. If I finish writing this report... what’ll you do for me?” He waggled his eyebrows as if he had a proposition in mind.

And there it was. Art sighed. He’d had a decent run, he could say that. Nearly four years wasn’t bad. Nearly four years since Art’s discussion with his grandmother, and Patrick had only just recently started making noise about wanting to try anal.

Art had kept Patrick occupied for a long time, and he'd enjoyed himself doing it. Kissing had led to making out which eventually led to grinding. After a while, their sessions of jerking off together had led to reaching for each other, instead. Several months back they’d added oral to the repertoire. All good fun. But the time had come, apparently, for Art to take a dick in the ass.

“Fine, Patrick,” Art relented. “If you finish the assignment today, we can try it tonight. Okay?”

“Don’t sound so eager!” Patrick said, shaking his head. Then, casually, “You know, if it’s that big of a deal to you, I could always go first.”

Art cocked his head. “What?”

“I could try it first. You know, bottoming. There’s no reason it has to be you.”

Art blinked at him. “You want me to fuck you?” Somehow he hadn’t realized that was an option.

“I don’t see why not,” Patrick said. “You’re obviously not into it and,” then he said something that set Art’s suspicions on high alert, “I don’t want to do anything to make you uncomfortable.”

Art’s eyes narrowed. Patrick didn’t want to do anything to make him uncomfortable? What the hell was that about? Since when? Since last week, when he’d made Art yell “penis” at the top of his lungs in the middle of the library as his hilarious-slash-demented idea of punishment? Patrick hated to see Art get hurt, sure, but he lived to see Art uncomfortable.

“Fine,” he said slowly. “If that’s what you want.”

“Sure,” Patrick replied with an easygoing shrug. He turned back to his homework.

“I’m going to help you get ready, though,” Art added.

Patrick pretended to be insulted but ruined the effect by smiling. “Hey, I’ve looked stuff up. I know what I’m doing. What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not even a little,” Art enunciated.

***

Later that night, however, when the moment had arrived and Patrick was laid out in front of him on his stomach, Art was finding that it was himself he didn’t trust.

Patrick turned his head to look back at him and laughed aloud at his expression. “God, would you relax, already? There’s nothing to be so freaked out about. We have lube,” he gestured to it, “you just stretch me out with your fingers or whatever and then, you know, go slow.”

“Right,” Art said, licking his lips. That had been more or less the plan when it was going to be him. Now, though… now…

It was just that Art had practiced a bit, starting back when Patrick had first hinted at an interest in this. And the thing was that it hurt. Not horribly, not unbearably. But no matter how slowly he went, how careful he was when fingering himself open in the shower (or in bed if Patrick was going to be out for a while), it still kind of hurt. And that…

“What if we started with something else,” Art suggested, “besides my fingers?”

Patrick again turned back to him, now a little confused. “What, you mean like a toy or something? We don’t even– oh my God.” Patrick sprang up onto his knees and faced Art fully. He looked positively thrilled. Putting on a mock-scandalized tone, he said, “Why, Art Donaldson. You want to– to– tonguepunch my shitbox!”

Art dropped his face into his hands. “I fucking hate you, dude.”

Patrick laughed, jubilant, and pulled him into his embrace. “No, you don’t!” Moving back, he added, “Cause I know why you want to.”

Art let his hands fall. “Yes, Patrick,” he said sarcastically. “You caught me. You’ve uncovered my secret fetish. Ever since we were twelve years old, I’ve been biding my time, lying in wait for an opportunity to ‘tonguepunch your shitbox.’”

“No, it’s way worse than that,” Patrick said. He took Art’s hands in his and batted his lashes. “You don’t want to hurt me.”

Art tore his hands out of Patrick’s grip. “Okay, fuck you. Just forget it. Forget I said anything.”

“No, no, I’ll stop! It’s just, Art, come on. That’s the cutest shit I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Art glared at him.

Patrick put his hands up. “I’m stopping, I’m shutting up now. Let’s– let’s do it.” He laid down again, peeking back over his shoulder to see what Art would do.

Art took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He rolled his shoulders. Then he shifted down some on the bed to position himself at the right level. He nudged Patrick’s legs apart and moved to kneel between them. After a few seconds of hesitation, Art reached out and brushed Patrick’s hole with his finger, then went over it more firmly a few times, petting in long strokes that went down to his balls. Patrick made a soft noise of approval. Finally, Art lowered his head and dragged his tongue in a stripe up the same area. Thanks to their earlier “preparation,” Patrick tasted only of skin. Art circled the hole with the tip of his tongue a couple times, then gave it some licks which pressed harder on the center, producing a little sigh from Patrick.

Art kept on like that for a few minutes, alternating his movements, feeling the muscle underneath him start to relax and feeling Patrick start to roll his hips, rubbing himself against the mattress, both of which seemed like good signs. Art slipped a hand down to where his own dick was taking an interest in the current goings-on, too. Then he began adding a new motion in between the others, pushing his tongue more directly into the middle so he was actually opening him up and going inside, which made Patrick say, “Fuck,” and start humping the bed harder.

Before too much longer Patrick said, voice rough, “Either– either we do the next part, or I’m gonna come like this.”

Art pulled back and asked him, “Which one do you want?”

Patrick dropped his head for a moment, thinking, then lifted it back up. “Fingers.”

Art spread lube over three of his fingers but only got as far as rubbing two of them inside of Patrick before he said, urgently, “That’s good, that’s good, now.”

“Are you sure?” Art asked, concerned.

Patrick said, “Art, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to kill you.”

Art leaned down and gave Patrick’s asscheek a light nip with his teeth. “Yes, Master,” he answered coyly. Patrick shot him a heated look, both annoyance and arousal at once.

Art pulled back on Patrick’s hips to encourage him up onto his hands and knees, and then, after stroking lubricant onto himself, he was finally pressing inside, moving slowly as Patrick adjusted to him. The sensation was delicious, the clutch of Patrick’s body hot and tight around him, and he had to hold himself back from what his body desperately wanted to do. Once he was all the way in, he draped himself over Patrick and murmured in his ear, “Good?”

“Yeah, yeah, good,” Patrick panted. “Just need a sec.”

“Take all the secs you need,” Art said innocently, kissing Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick huffed a breathless laugh.

Soon, Patrick said, “Okay, try now.” Art began rocking against Patrick, gentle at first, then, when instructed, with more speed and force. The feeling of being inside Patrick was entirely different from being with a girl (in Art’s admittedly limited experience), but it was incredible.

Art shifted his hips, thrusting at different angles until he found one that made Patrick cry out, “Oh, fuck, yes, like that!” and then he kept at it, hammering at the spot while Patrick moaned.

Finally Patrick was saying, “I’m close, I’m close, I need– touch me.”

“Yeah, I will,” Art said, emboldened now, sure he knew why Patrick had been so weird earlier. “But you have to do something first.”

“Ah, what?”

“Tell me this is what you wanted,” Art answered.

“The fuck are you–”

“Tell me this is what you wanted the whole time. When we jerked off together, when we watched porn together, was this what you were picturing? Me fucking you in the ass?”

“Jesus fuck, Art,” Patrick gasped out. Art started slamming his hips even faster against Patrick’s. “Yes, yes, fine, yes!” True to his word, Art reached beneath Patrick and wrapped a hand around his cock. Patrick was coming within seconds, jerking and moaning under Art’s body. Art kept going but didn’t last much longer before he, too, was spilling inside of Patrick.

The pair of them eased down to the mattress, slicked with sweat and breathing heavily. After a second Art grabbed the box of tissues they kept next to the bed, taking a couple for himself before handing it to Patrick.

Once Patrick could speak again, he said with amazement, “Art, holy shit. What the hell got into you?”

“There’s a joke somewhere here about getting into you,” Art said tiredly, “but I’m too classy to make it.”

“You mean your brain just got yanked out through your dick, and you can’t make it?”

“Yeah,” said Art, waving a hand, “that.” They laid together for another minute, enjoying the feeling of the other’s skin against their own. Then Patrick spoke up:

“So… I really liked that, and I’m glad we did it, but there’s something I should probably tell you?” He rolled over to face Art, looking a smidge guilty.

“What’s that?” Art asked warily.

“You maybe didn’t totally need to use your mouth on me like that.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means… I’ve kind of been fingering myself when I jerk off in the shower for, like, months now?” Patrick made an apologetic face.

“Oh,” said Art. “Wait, wait, hang on, how often have you been jerking off in the shower?”

Patrick was brought up short by the question. “I don’t know. Most days, I guess, when we don’t shower together.”

Art leaned up on his elbows and said, outraged, “Patrick, we have sex, like, twice a day. And you have a girlfriend! And you’re jerking off? What are you, the world’s most disgusting fountain?”

Patrick was amused now. “I’m a virile young man in the prime of my life. Sorry you can’t relate, bud.”

“You’re a freak, and scientists should study you for the good of mankind.”

“Great idea.” Patrick leered at him. “Wanna start with a semen sample?”

Art shoved his face away. “Don’t even pretend you’re not exhausted right now.”

Patrick shrugged. “I could sleep.”

Art stood to turn off the overhead light, then returned to bed where they arranged themselves the usual way, Patrick spooned behind Art.

Into the darkness, Art said, “Hey, I never asked. Are you okay? Sore or anything?”

Patrick rubbed a hand up and down Art’s arm. “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I mean, if they make us run laps tomorrow morning, I will kill myself, though.”

“Oh, take me out, too?” Art requested drowsily. “I don’t want to run laps, either.”

Patrick snuggled up closer and dropped a kiss on the nape of his neck. “Anything you say, baby.”

***

One June evening, just over a week before the school year would end, saw a rather curious Art headed toward the guidance office. Ms. Garcia had pulled him aside that afternoon during the short gap between the end of class and the beginning of practice and asked if Art could come by after he was finished with dinner. No, nothing wrong, he wasn’t in any kind of trouble. No, there was no need for Patrick to come. It wasn’t urgent, he should just swing by if he had the chance. She had never requested his presence before, so yeah, curious.

Within Guidance, the office door with Ms. Garcia’s gold nameplate on it was open halfway. When Art poked his head through, she smiled, revealing dimples, and waved him in.

“Hi, Art, go ahead and take a seat. I’ll just be one second.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Art said. He took the moment to look around at the colorful posters wallpapering the closet-sized room. There was an actual Hang in There! kitten, he saw, and he pondered whether every guidance counselor in America was mandated to put one of those up, like how chemistry labs were required to have eyewash stations.

Ms. Garcia finished filling out the form in front of her and set it aside, turning to him. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I wanted you to come by today. I was hoping to ask you: have you given any thought to the idea of going to college?”

Had Art given any thought to the idea of moving to China and living off of bamboo, like a panda, she might as well have said. “College, ma’am?” he questioned, reaching up to touch his collar.

She smiled again. “Okay, I know what you’re thinking. It’s not exactly the norm, but you know, slaves do go to college. There are owners who think of it as an investment in their future income.”

And Art did know that, in theory. Just like anyone else, a slave could get a higher-paying job if they had a college degree or some other kind of training. It was rare, but there were even slaves in very prestigious careers, lawyers and things like that. There had been a TV show airing for the last couple of years about a slave doctor who went around solving medical mysteries. It happened. Art had just never pictured it for himself. The idea was making his stomach flutter a bit.

“And in some cases it doesn’t have to cost the owner anything at all,” she continued. “Art, your grades are excellent, and your tennis is strong, too. I think you’d be a really solid candidate for an athletic scholarship. A lot of schools keep a spot or two open especially for slaves. It could be a great opportunity for you. Would you be interested in something like that?”

Art’s heart was beating faster now. Yes, he would be. But. “Ma’am, even if I was… that’s really not my call. Why did you say I shouldn’t bring my master with me? Shouldn’t you be telling him about this?”

Ms. Garcia had very expressive brown eyes behind her glasses, and now they dropped. She rubbed her thumb along the edge of the desk. “Well,” she spoke hesitantly, “if you are interested, I will certainly have a talk with him. If you know this is something you don’t want, though,” she met Art’s eye, “then I don’t think he needs to hear about it. You can just tell him that we discussed the idea of you joining more extracurriculars, if you need to say something.”

Art swallowed and nodded his understanding. Ms. Garcia was actually trying to give him some amount of choice in the matter. That was… incredibly kind of her, and it was also probably something she could get in trouble for, if someone found out.

“I have some brochures here,” she said, flipping through the papers on her desk and pulling out a folder. “You can take this with you or just look at it here, whichever you like.”

Art opened it and started paging through the glossy booklets inside. The names of the schools sent him reeling. Princeton, Stanford, Columbia, UCLA. Jesus, Harvard? Even Yale, which Mr. Zweig had attended, according to a diploma on the wall of his office which Art had studied in some very dark moments.

“You really think I could get into schools like this?” Art asked her. It didn’t seem real.

“I do,” Ms. Garcia insisted. “It’s early days yet, but junior year is very important. That’s why I wanted to catch you before the end of term, so you could have the chance to think about it over the summer.” She stood up, and Art stood with her. “Take your time, Art, and come talk to me whenever you’re ready.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Art said, struggling to express his sincerity. She smiled like she understood.

***

Out in the hall, folder tucked under his arm, Art’s head was spinning. Holy shit, college. His grandmother would have cried with joy if she heard the conversation he’d just had. Was that actually possible for him? Because even if he could get in, that might not be the hard part.

Art would need the Zweigs’ permission to apply to these schools, he knew that. And the thing was, he could see them granting it. They were people who valued education very highly, and the fact that they paid for Art to go to boarding school alongside Patrick indicated that they might not think it was a waste for a slave to get one, too, at least if he was up for scholarships. However, by the time Art was old enough to actually attend one of these universities, Mr. and Mrs. Zweig wouldn’t own him anymore. Patrick would.

Patrick, who did not like school. Patrick, who wanted to go pro the minute he turned eighteen. Patrick, who had spent the last four years with Art glued to his side for twenty-two to twenty-three hours a day. Would he be willing to send Art away from him for months at a time while he toured? It was difficult to imagine.

All of these thoughts were racing through his mind, which meant Art wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. And that was a mistake, always, because it meant his head wasn’t in The Game.

The Game was sort of like the unofficial sport of Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy. It was something that free students opted into. Patrick never would have, of course, even if he was aware of it, which the slave-owning population at school generally wasn’t. Actually, most students never participated. Most people there were perfectly cordial to Art, or if they weren’t, they were at least civil, or if they weren’t, they just ignored him. Still, there were enough players wandering around to keep him on his toes.

No one had ever sat Art down and listed out the rules of The Game to him, but he knew them nonetheless. It worked like this: if you, a free student with no slave of your own, wanted to score points, all you had to do was touch a slave, just in passing, without their owner seeing. Sure, some body parts were worth more points than others, but anything would do. Brush a hand across their ass, run a finger up their arm. Anything, so long as the slave noticed you doing it and their master did not.

If you wanted to win The Game, though, that was much tougher. You had to get a slave alone, for one thing. That was unusual in the first place because the school organized their schedules so they could wait on their owners at all times. Art was in all of Patrick’s classes, though he sat at the back with the other slaves, so that he could help him keep track of quizzes and assignments and assist him with his homework. Art trained with Patrick, he ate with Patrick. He was almost never apart from him in public, especially by himself. The second difficulty was that you had to catch a slave unaware, which was an even greater rarity because every slave with half a brain knew to watch their back and to run like hell if necessary.

The girls got it worst of all, Art had learned, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t take Art if they could get him. And tonight, apparently, they could.

Preoccupied as he was, Art was completely unprepared for the moment when hands closed around his arms and jerked him to a halt. “Hey, Art,” said a faux-friendly voice, and Art closed his eyes momentarily. He recognized that voice. Matt fucking Byer. What you might call a prolific player of The Game. “Let’s take a walk.”

On the way to the guidance office, there had been plenty of people moving through the halls, coming back from dinner. Now, though, the area around them was deserted, and Matt was able to steer Art toward the nearest bathroom unimpeded.

Art could have yelled, of course, if he wanted to get the everloving shit kicked out of him. Running was fair game, attempting to attract attention was not. Were he prevented from beating the fuck out of Art by the appearance of a staff member, Matt and his friends would get back to Art at his earliest possible convenience, which would likely mean dragging Patrick into it, too.

Alternatively, Art could have fought back, just in case he wanted to explain to the police why he had assaulted a free person, Matt's word against his. Even better, Art had turned sixteen last month, and was now an adult in the eyes of the law, and would be punished accordingly.

There was someone in the bathroom washing his hands, a boy who looked no more than thirteen. “Fuck off,” Matt barked at him and, shooting Art a terrified look, the boy scrambled to follow the order. Art didn’t have a lot of hope for help from that quarter, since telling any adult would result in that kid being nuked from orbit.

To his complete lack of surprise, Matt shoved him into the handicapped stall and locked the door behind them. He put his hands on Art’s shoulders and “helped” him down onto his knees.

“Just like you do for Master,” Matt told Art, reaching for his waistband. “And watch the teeth.” Art gave him a black look, but when Matt grabbed his jaw, he didn’t try to resist.

For the next three minutes, Art tried to be as little involved as possible. Matt didn’t seem to expect much, happy to do most of the work as long as Art presented a stationary target.

Then the bathroom door banged open, and Matt’s movements stilled. What followed was the most heavenly sound Art had ever heard:

“What the fuck is going on in there?” Coach Henderson boomed. “Get out here right now.”

Jesus Christ, thought Art, a great wave of relief rolling over him. That little kid was either the bravest person Art had ever met or he was dumber than a rock.

Matt’s grip on Art slackened, and he was able to pull back. Matt tucked himself away and gave Art a warning glance as he stood. The two of them left the bathroom stall.

***

Coach Henderson walked out of the principal’s office, and then it was just the four of them: Principal Jiménez behind her desk, the two free boys (Matt and now Patrick) sitting in front of her, and Art, leaning against the wall next to Patrick’s chair.

The award-winning story told by Matt was that they hadn’t been doing anything in particular in that bathroom stall. Just hanging out, really. Shooting the shit with his pal, Art. Art said nothing, neither corroborating nor denying this version of events, and inspected the tiles of the floor.

Patrick, savvy enough to know that Matt Byer was a fucking creep, was jiggling his leg at an impressive speed and looking increasingly furious every second.

“You know,” Principal Jiménez began, “I actually celebrated my forty-eighth birthday just a couple of weeks ago.”

All three of the students stared at her blankly.

“Oh,” she went on, “I just thought you might be interested to know that I was not, in fact, born yesterday.” As she said so, she delivered a pointed look to Matt. “I’d also like to remind you that this is not the first time you’ve been caught ‘hanging out’ with someone else’s slave. Your parents will be getting a call, and you have detention every day for the rest of the school year. Including this weekend.”

Matt started complaining immediately, but he was drowned out by Patrick.

“Detention?” he spat. “Fucking detention, are you kidding me? You know what this asshole was doing. He was at least trying to rape Art. How are you not throwing him out right now?”

Principal Jiménez held up a hand. “Let’s dispense with both the foul and the dramatic language, please. You have every right to be upset. He should never have put his hands on your property. But no one is getting 'thrown out' for that. And since I don’t know what actually happened, there’s not much more to do here. Art, anything you’d like to add to this conversation?”

“No, ma’am,” Art said quietly.

“Then I’ve made my decision, and I suggest everyone return to their dorm rooms for the night.”

***

On the way back, Patrick was fuming. “Can you believe this shit? She’s just letting fucking rapists run around the school.”

“Patrick, can you–

“Yeah, I know you’re a slave, why the fuck should it matter? That means someone can try to rape you and all they have to do is go and sit in time out?”

“Patrick!” Art snapped, and Patrick finally turned to him. The spike of anger drained out of Art as fast as it came, leaving him empty. “Could you just… stop calling it that?”

Patrick scrutinized Art for a moment. Then, speaking much more softly, he said, “Yeah. Yeah, okay, man.” They finished the rest of the walk in silence.

Once back at the dorm, the first thing Art did was duck into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He watched himself in the mirror as he did so. He looked normal. Not like he was going to cry, not like he was changed in any way. Like nothing ever happened. He took a deep breath and braced himself before opening the bathroom door. Patrick was laying on his back on their bed, staring up at the ceiling. After a brief pause, Art climbed on next to him.

Patrick turned his head to look at Art. “Are you going to make me wonder what happened to you tonight?”

Art sighed. He wasn’t exactly excited to talk about it, but he felt more detached than devastated. “Matt wanted me to blow him. He started, but he didn’t get to finish. That’s it.”

Patrick reached his arm out, and Art accepted the invitation to cuddle into his side, pressing his nose into Patrick’s neck and breathing his scent. “Why didn’t you say anything to Jiménez?” Patrick asked.

“What for? So she could tell you more about how no one gets kicked out over ‘property’ or to give Matt and his buddies a reason to wanna beat the crap out of me?”

Patrick hummed in concession. Then, nudging Art up again, he slid off the bed, squatting down by the side to reach underneath. He emerged with a six-pack of Budweiser. “I was saving this so we could celebrate the end of term, but I think this moment calls for a fucking drink, don’t you?”

Art did not disagree. He took the can Patrick passed to him and opened it. “How’d you get this?”

“Traded a little Adderall.”

Of course. Art rolled his eyes. The only surprising thing about Patrick’s ADHD diagnosis last year was that it came so late. And since their school liked nothing more than a random drug test, prescription stuff basically functioned as gold in its halls.

“Don’t you need that?” Art said. “Like, to focus or something?”

“Come on, man. I know you love me for who I am. You don’t think I need to be medicated.”

“Eh,” said Art, rocking his hand in a so-so gesture. They both snickered, which felt at least as needed as the beer. Patrick dropped back onto the bed next to him, propped up against the headboard.

“Oh, hey, what did Ms. Garcia even want with you, anyway?” Patrick said.

The thought of opening up a major conversation like that was not at all appealing at the moment. “Oh, um. It was nothing. She just wanted to talk to me about extracurricular stuff.” Soon. He promised himself he would bring it up with Patrick soon.

Patrick shook his head, levity disappearing from his expression once more. “I was stupid. I should’ve gone with you. I should’ve been there.”

“You can’t be with me every second of the day,” Art pointed out.

“Yeah, says who?” Patrick hooked an arm around Art’s neck and dragged him in to kiss the top of his head. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

Such an affectionate sentiment, to crush Art so thoroughly. Had it been “difficult to imagine” Patrick leaving him behind at college for months at a time? Make it more like impossible, now. Whatever tiny chance he once had, he had left it on that bathroom floor as surely as all of those shiny brochures.

“I know you won’t,” Art told him.

Chapter Text

Summer 2004

Not long into summer vacation, Art's mood crashed like a meteorite fallen to Earth, the kind that would leave a fuck-off huge crater in the ground, drawing tourists with cameras and misguided obsessions with aliens.

At first Patrick thought there had been something wrong with the joint they’d smoked, as was their early-summer tradition, and he spent the next couple of days trying to tease and cajole and fuck Art out of his low spirits. Art watched the smile on his face die slowly as he came to understand the situation could not be fixed with banter or orgasms, and then Art loathed himself even more for having infected Patrick with the contagion of his misery.

Patrick’s conclusion was that Art was depressed, possibly having some kind of delayed response to what Matt had done to him. That was a convenient excuse, so Art did not correct him. Anyway, it was a pretty good guess, considering the symptoms: melancholy, fatigue, snappishness, the odd crying jag with no obvious cause. Maybe Patrick was even right, maybe Art was depressed, and it did have something to do with that piece of shit Byer, didn’t it? However indirectly.

The truth was, though, there was a more immediate explanation than what had happened in the bathroom at school: Art was stressed, and he was scared, and, worst of all, he couldn’t say jackshit about any of it. That was because Art was now keeping a secret from Patrick, a secret that made the question of college look laughably innocent.

By the second instance of Art tearing up, apparently out of nowhere, Patrick was done being patient.

“You need to see a doctor,” he said, rubbing firm circles into Art’s back. “I’ll talk to my mom about it.” Patrick volunteering to talk to one of his parents about anything of substance was uncharacteristic enough to give Art pause.

Putting a slave on psychiatric medication wasn’t that unusual, except Art knew perfectly well there was nothing wrong with his brain chemistry, and the last thing he needed was something further messing with his head. A slave in talk therapy was less common, but it wasn’t unheard of, and he didn’t completely hate the idea of being able to hash all of this out with someone. Unfortunately, Art had no legal right to privacy, and how much would be reported to the Zweigs would depend on how much they demanded to know as well as how much the individual therapist agreed to disclose. He couldn't take the chance.

Art lifted his face from where it had been pressed into Patrick’s collarbone. “No,” he said flatly. “Promise me you’re not going to say anything to her.” That Patrick would not bring this to his dad went without saying.

Patrick tilted his head back toward the ceiling, frustrated. “Jesus, fine. But we have to do something because this is ass, Art.”

Yet with professional help off the table, Patrick was at somewhat of a loss. He employed what little he knew about looking after a depressed person, which mostly meant refusing to allow Art to sleep all day, as he would have liked to do, and pushing him outside for long hours of sunlight and exercise in whatever form he could think of: tennis, running, swimming, pick-up games of soccer or basketball or volleyball played at the park or the beach. The two of them spent more time than ever out of the house, and though he felt tired down to his bones, it was true that being away from the house’s inhabitants suited Art just fine.

One evening, after yet another meal that Art only picked at and after he’d attended the Zweigs’ dinner, too, Patrick brought him not upstairs but back to the kitchen.

“Hello, my love! What can I get for you?” Nadine greeted Patrick warmly from the sink where she was scrubbing a pot. Next to her, Emma was drying a stack of plates.

“Hi. Do you have any snacks or anything we can bring up to my room?” Patrick said.

“Sure, I can put something together.” Nadine stripped off her dish gloves, gave her hands a quick wash, and began busying herself at the fridge.

“You're hungry?” Art asked him, puzzled. “You just ate dinner.”

“Oh, no, this is for you.” Patrick smirked his most aggravating little smirk. “Nadine ratted you out, man. She told me you've barely been eating for the last couple of weeks.”

Art rounded on her, betrayed, and she put her hands up. “Honey, I know, and I'm sorry, but we're all worried about you.” Across the room, Emma nodded her emphatic agreement.

Art bit the inside of his cheek and tried to suppress rising irritation as Nadine returned to loading a tray up with grapes and baby carrots, cheese cubes and crackers. She meant well and clearly just wanted to help – Patrick, too, as obnoxious as he was about it. Besides, none of this was their fault, was it? No, it was his. Art and his idiotic fucking mouth.

You see, when Art's life was torn in two, neatly divided into “before” and “after,” it happened like this: Art and Patrick spent all morning of the fourth day of vacation at the tennis courts. Then they picked up a small amount of grass from the country club employee who was their reliable connect and headed to the boardwalk to indulge in all of the tasty things it had to offer. The two of them returned to the house afterwards to relax with a little Wind Waker, and Art went downstairs to grab a couple of sodas for them.

On his way back, he was intercepted by Mr. Zweig, followed by Max as usual. Art felt reasonably sure he didn’t smell like weed or anything by then, but he was skittish nonetheless.

“Hang on, Art. There's something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Mr. Zweig. “Your school called a little while ago to inform us of an ‘incident,’ something about you being cornered in a bathroom. But apparently they weren't able to tell me whether or not my slave had been tampered with. So I need to know, were you?”

The thought of explaining to Mr. Zweig what had happened to him made Art's stomach turn, and he could only pray that he would not be asked for any further detail. And maybe it was because he was flustered, or maybe he was still a bit high, but Art's master had asked him a question, and, just like he was supposed to (like a fool, like a sucker, like the world's biggest chump), Art told him the truth.

“Yes, Master,” he said. He had to force the words out of his mouth at an audible volume.

“I see,” said Mr. Zweig. He stepped closer to Art. “You tell that son of mine he should be more careful with his things.” Then he reached out to put a hand on Art's hip, and his voice dropped low. “Especially pretty things like you.” His thumb slipped underneath the edge of Art's T-shirt and swiped the bare skin of his stomach.

Art was statue-still. Yes, Master, he should have said again, but he physically could not. Instead he simply gawked as Mr. Zweig smiled slightly and stepped back, removing his hand, before turning and continuing on his way. Max locked eyes with Art, unease on Max’s face and utter blankness on Art’s, and then he, too, disappeared around the corner.

Within a minute, Art was enduring his first ever panic attack right there in the hall, squatting down on his heels and gasping for air. Stupid, stupid, he was so fucking stupid. What the hell had he been thinking? Stupid to have told the truth, of course, thereby alerting Mr. Zweig to the fact that he was now damaged goods, but also colossally stupid for having never, not once, considered what his turning sixteen the previous month had given his master every right to do.

Eventually the rush of terror ran its course. In its place came a sort of hollow calm over a low, pulsing dread. Art picked up the sodas and got to his feet, quivering.

Once upstairs he brushed off Patrick's question about what had taken him so long, and, knowing damn well he had no chance of masquerading normalcy that day, Art invented the onset of a nasty headache. He must have looked authentically ill because he spent the rest of the afternoon fading in and out of consciousness with his head in Patrick's lap, having his scalp massaged and scratched while Patrick watched TV with the volume down low.

Back in the present, in the kitchen, Nadine was pressing a tray full of food that Art had no appetite for into his hands. “Thanks,” he muttered to her.

“Yeah, thank you,” Patrick said more sincerely before he led Art out of the room.

“I hope you feel better, Art,” Emma’s chipmunk warble came from behind them, sounding rather sorrowful.

Art gritted his teeth. Yeah, fucking right, Emma. Art would perk right up any minute now. He trailed after Patrick towards the stairs, dreading having to eat this stuff, dreading anything that Patrick might ask him about how he was feeling, dreading, dreading, dreading.

***

As a matter of fact, though, by the time Patrick’s birthday rolled around in late July, Art was feeling a little better. Cautiously optimistic, you could say. It’d been just about a solid month since the occurrence in the hall, and nothing of note had taken place since. Not only had Mr. Zweig taken no further action, he’d hardly even looked at Art in the past several weeks – and Art would know, because he’d been monitoring this closely whether he wanted to or not. Art had begun to think that he’d been exaggerating the significance of the event: what had even happened, anyway? Both the comment and the touch had been uncomfortable, yes. Disturbing, even. But Mr. Zweig had not actually threatened a single thing, had he? Art had probably been overreacting.

He was especially glad, now, that he hadn’t said anything to Patrick, a thought he’d stayed up late that first night dithering over before ultimately discarding. If it really was nothing, at best he would have just spread his fear for no reason. But actually, it didn’t matter whether it was something or nothing. Because while Patrick was typically more likely to play something off with a joke than to lose his temper, Art did not trust him to keep a cool head on this particular matter.

Patrick’s relationship with his dad had never exactly been good, as Art had witnessed, but over the course of the last four years, things had deteriorated even further. It was nothing overt, the two of them didn’t fight, precisely. Under the surface, though, an insidious mutual contempt had been building. Every summer seemed to find Mr. Zweig less and less impressed with Patrick. Patrick was sloppy, irresponsible, self-centered, and Mr. Zweig was completely incapable of seeing his better qualities.

On Patrick’s side, the main problem was Art himself. It wasn’t that Mr. Zweig disciplined Art constantly – Patrick really had done his best to toe the line ever since he’d learned that Art’s literal ass was on it, and when he did break the rules, he was a lot more careful not to get caught. (The two of them both cut a bit looser at school, since thankfully the administration did not see fit to call home about every minor infraction.) The punishments happened often enough, though, and every beating saw Patrick less regretful of his actions and more resentful of his father.

Art didn’t necessarily agree that Mr. Zweig hated Patrick, as Patrick had once claimed. That Patrick hated Mr. Zweig, on the other hand, Art had no trouble believing.

Combine that with the fresh swell of protectiveness that had emerged in Principal Jiménez’s office, and there was no question of Patrick keeping quiet about this. The result of that was predictable, too: nothing would make Mr. Zweig more keen to put Patrick in his place than Patrick mouthing off to him or yelling at him about Art. And nothing would put Patrick in his place like the thing Art had spent the last month fearing.

It was just safer this way.

But Art tried his hardest to shake off all of these thoughts because, again, nothing had happened. And it was Patrick’s birthday, his sixteenth, and he deserved to have at least one day where he didn’t have to deal with Art’s moody bullshit, didn’t he?

He pulled himself together enough that morning to deliver a long, torturously slow handjob, Patrick sitting between Art’s thighs with his back against Art’s chest, cursing Art out for smacking his hand away every time he reached down to speed things along, because as much as Patrick complained, Art knew he fucking loved this. They spent a further two hours afterwards in bed, making out and touching each other all over, lazy and goalless.

***

The two of them were left to their own devices for most of the day. That evening, however, the Zweig house was packed, just as it was every year. It seemed like every single person the Zweigs were acquainted with in the state of Maine was in attendance, plus, for all Art could tell, a bus full of strangers that just decided it would be fun to crash. Nadine and Emma had been in a frenzy of cooking and cleaning for the past several days because Patrick’s birthday was his parents' annual excuse to show off their summer home, including, this year, the shiny new Lexus in the driveway. Patrick himself was ambivalent about both the party and the gift.

“Might be nice to eventually have a birthday that wasn’t about impressing the neighbors,” he opined to Art in a relatively quiet spot they’d found.

“Poor little rich boy,” Art said, giving him a pat.

Patrick made a face back at him.

“Okay, I know, but we always end up having a good time at these things, don’t we?” Art reasoned. “And you know having a car at school will be fun. We’ll do day trips on the weekends, it’ll be great.”

“Yeah, alright. I guess I could stop feeling sorry for myself, if you’re gonna be all rational about it.”

“Thank you for your service,” Art deadpanned, and Patrick laughed.

And a couple hours later, just as Art had predicted, they were having a good time. Patrick had gone off a little while ago with a pretty neighbor of his in a pink dress who’d said, voice slurring very slightly, that she wanted to give Patrick a “special present,” and golly, Art wondered what that could be. Grace, Patrick’s girlfriend from school, would not have been pleased about this, not that such considerations had ever stopped Patrick before. As for Art, he just felt glad for him. It wasn’t like they’d been celibate for the last month or anything – particularly not, you know, earlier today – but there had been a noticeable dip in the amount of sex they’d been having while Art was feeling like shit.

Art, meanwhile, was hanging out with Will, the slave that belonged to Patrick’s friend, Mitchell. He’d gotten to know him pretty well over the years, and he was a cool guy. Will luckily possessed both the laid-back attitude and the bone-dry sense of humor he needed to live with Mitchell’s assholery without losing his mind. Art himself would have gone nuts years before.

However, in the middle of telling Will a story (about the time when a previous girlfriend of Patrick’s had discovered that he’d been receiving “special presents” from someone else, a story that Patrick did not find nearly as humorous as Art did), Art felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked around to see Max, face unreadable as it often was.

“You’re needed upstairs,” Max told him, and Art’s brow knitted. That was cryptic.

“Uh, sorry–” Art said to Will, but Will just waved him off easily.

“No problem, go take care of it,” he said.

Art left, following Max through the house and up the stairs to Patrick’s bedroom, feeling a little concerned about what he might find.

Correctly, as it turned out.

“Art!” Patrick said with delight as soon as the door opened. He and the neighbor girl had been laying on his bed, fully clothed, but now Patrick bounded over and gave him a hug as if it had been a week since he’d seen Art instead of less than an hour.

“Hey… buddy,” Art responded, confused. “What–” But when Patrick pulled back, he could see what. Art wouldn’t say he’d had loads of experience with drugs, other than pot anyway, but he did have loads of experience with Patrick, and he could see the difference in him immediately. Patrick’s pupils were fat, and he was beaming at Art stupidly, hands still on his arms. “Oh, shit.” Art whipped around to the girl on the bed. “What the hell did you give him?”

She smiled. “A little E. He really likes it.”

“Oh, my God, you couldn’t have just sucked his dick like anyone else would have?” Art demanded. He shouldn't have been talking to a free person like this, but he couldn't care about that right now.

Max cleared his throat from his position near the door. “Ma’am,” he said, “it might be best if you left now.”

“Um, okay,” the girl gave a little giggle and pushed herself upright. Max opened the door for her, and she tottered out of the room. Patrick didn’t seem to notice her going. He had come up close to Art again, rubbing his hands over Art’s torso and nuzzling his face against Art’s, too, like a cat. Art ignored him.

“Max,” he said, pleading already.

“Patrick’s father has been looking for him,” Max said.

“Max, please,” Art begged. “Please don’t tell him about this.”

Max was silent for a long moment. Then he bit out, “If he said that to me,” he indicated Patrick, “I’d say he didn’t know what he was asking. But you do. You know exactly what position you’re putting me in.”

“And you know what he’ll do to me,” Art answered, voice cracking. “Please.”

Max rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “This is a mess.” He was quiet for a while longer, considering. Then he looked back up at Art. “I will tell Mr. Zweig that Patrick had a little too much to drink. He won’t be happy about that, either, but…”

Relief, so powerful that Art put a hand onto Patrick’s waist to avoid giving in to his weakened knees and falling. Thank fucking God. No, Patrick’s dad wouldn’t be happy that Patrick had abandoned his party to get drunk, but it would be an entirely different kind of “unhappy.” Mr. Zweig had been known to write off a little alcohol as harmless teenage antics, had poured Patrick a glass of champagne himself last New Year’s. Whatever happened after he heard that story, Art would survive it.

“Thank you, Max.” Art poured every ounce of himself into those three words.

Max shook his head and sighed again. “Just… keep him in here for the rest of the night.”

“I will,” Art agreed firmly. With one last look back at Patrick, still snuggling into Art, Max opened the door and left the room.

Art needed to take a couple of deep breaths, feeling like he’d just had a near-death experience. He wound his arms around Patrick and squeezed him, burying his face in Patrick’s neck for his own comfort, although the idiot in question was clearly enjoying it as well.

“You can’t be bothered to take your goddamn Adderall half the time, but you’ll take ecstasy, huh?” he asked into Patrick’s skin. Patrick chuckled and slid his hand up Art’s shirt. Art pulled back to look Patrick in the eye. “Seriously, what the hell were you thinking?”

“That she was gorgeous and she wanted me to open my mouth. I didn’t know what it was,” Patrick explained.

“Oh!” Art said, getting properly annoyed now that the relief was wearing off. “Oh, you’re telling me she put a random pill on your tongue, and you fucking swallowed it! No, you’re right, that’s even better.”

“Come on, please don’t be mad,” Patrick said earnestly. He settled both of his hands on Art’s hips. “I love you.”

“Yeah, I bet you love everything right now,” Art dismissed, but then Patrick jerked him abruptly.

“No!” Patrick said, suddenly intense. “No, Art, I love you.”

Art stared at him. Patrick maintained the eye contact, face serious. After a moment, Art softened. He put his hands on Patrick’s face. “Okay,” he said gently, and he pulled him in for a kiss. He let Patrick tug him toward the bed.

Art couldn’t find it in himself to be truly angry. First of all, if Patrick didn’t know that the stakes were especially high right now, that was because Art hadn’t fucking told him, had he? And even beyond that, Patrick, not exactly famous for his “nurturing soul,” had spent his entire summer up to that point taking care of Art: making sure Art ate and slept and showered the right amount, soothing him and cheering him up, trying to help him in whatever way he could. Art couldn’t exactly blame him for needing to blow off some steam.

Well, Art thought with only moderate exasperation, pushing Patrick flat and kissing down his body, someone might as well give the birthday boy that blowjob.

***

Art wasn’t sure what to expect of the next day – did ecstasy give you a hangover? – and the answer turned out to be a reversal of their recent roles so complete it was kind of amusing. Patrick was now the one who was in a dismal mood and wanted to lay in bed all day, though he seemed to be physically fine. Part of Art wanted to drag his master outside for a little game of soccer, see how he liked it, but instead he mercifully returned the favor of a month ago, letting Patrick nap with his head on Art’s thigh while Art played Pokémon Ruby on Patrick’s Game Boy Advance. Patrick woke intermittently to heckle Art’s choice of starter (Mudkip) and party in general.

Art did, however, force Patrick out of bed entirely for dinner. Patrick’s absence at breakfast could be easily explained away by what Mr. Zweig already knew (or thought he knew). If Patrick were still missing ten hours later, though, that would’ve been more suspicious.

And dinner went fine. Patrick wasn’t especially talkative, but no one seemed bothered by that. Everything was normal, until all of a sudden it wasn’t.

As everyone was standing up to leave, Mr. Zweig said, casually, “Art, I’ll need you to come to the study with me.” His eyes moved to his son. “Just Art. Patrick, go to your room.”

Ice flooded Art’s veins. Mr. Zweig had never ordered him there alone. Patrick was always there. Always.

Patrick was thinking the same thing. “Why?” he demanded.

Mr. Zweig regarded Patrick for a beat and then said, almost kindly, “I don’t think you want to make this worse for Art than it’s already going to be.” Nobody in the dining room moved or made a sound. Even Mrs. Zweig and Marissa were frozen where they stood. Then Mr. Zweig was pushing in his chair and sweeping out of the room with Max at his heels. “Come along,” he told Art as he went past.

Art and Patrick exchanged alarmed looks, but there was nothing to do but go. So Art went.

***

There had always been a certain predictability to Art’s visits to the study. Every time, Max would be a perfect poker-faced sentinel in the corner. Art would sit on the couch, pressed up against Patrick’s body for what little solace they could provide one another. Mr. Zweig would stand in front of them, calmly delivering some sort of lecture, usually aimed at Patrick more than Art. Then the hammer would drop.

This time, everything was disjointed and wrong, and not only because Art’s side was cold and bare without Patrick next to him. He could see that Max’s eyes were widened with apprehension, as if he, too, was wondering what was going to happen tonight. And instead of advancing on Art, Mr. Zweig spoke to him from several feet away, leaning over his desk.

“Art, I want you to understand exactly why you’re here right now.” His voice had a strange tremor in it that Art didn’t recognize. “You see, it’s one thing for my fuckup son to do what he does best. And it’s quite another thing entirely for you to have my own slave keeping secrets from me.” He slammed his hand down on the desk and shouted, voice ringing out in the room, “My own fucking slave! Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Art had seen Mr. Zweig annoyed many times, even occasionally outright angry, but never, never like this.

He was including Max in the conversation now. “Unfortunately for both of you, I heard that little girl telling her friends all about getting the guest of honor ‘high out of his mind.’” He faced Max fully. “I gave you every opportunity to come to me, and you lied to my face.”

“Master–” Max began.

“Get out,” Mr. Zweig snapped. “Get out, I’ll deal with you later.”

Max seemed to sway a bit, just for a second or two, as if being pulled in multiple directions. Then, without meeting Art’s eye, he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. And Art was alone in a room with Mr. Zweig. He wasn’t sure if that had ever happened before.

“Get into position,” Mr. Zweig said, not looking at him. Art felt like a foreign presence must have been piloting his body as he stood and walked over to the designated place, because there was no way he could have done it by his own will. He took down his pants, and he bent over the desk, and he waited.

The first blow from the cane was such a powerful shock to Art’s body that his mind could hardly even categorize the sensation as pain. He had no such trouble with the next four strokes. The trouble was trying not to scream.

Art fought to catch his breath when it stopped, tears leaking out of his eyes uncontrollably. He heard the cane hit the ground.

“You and my son could both use a reminder of who really owns you,” Mr. Zweig said. “And I think you’ll remember just fine after this.”

When Art heard the sound of a zipper, he made no real attempt to brace himself for what was coming. If a month couldn't do it, what difference would a few seconds make?

***

At the threshold of the study, Art wiped wetness from his face and tried to smooth his expression into something presentable. That there were two people waiting for him down the hall did not surprise him. What did surprise him was that they were neither Patrick nor Max.

When Marissa caught sight of him, she gave Angelica a nudge, whispered something to her that Art didn’t hear, and walked out of view. Angelica approached him, looking somber. In an undertone so as not to be heard through the door, she said, “Max let me know you might need a hand. Am I taking you to Patrick, or are we going to a bathroom first?”

Art gave her a long look. Some faraway piece of him thought he should be pissed that Max told her about this, but Art was worn down to nothing and Art hurt and he couldn’t be bothered to feel much of anything beyond that.

“Bathroom,” he said eventually. He let Angelica support some of his weight as they very slowly limped to the closest one.

Art expected that Angelica would deposit him inside and then step back out to wait. Instead, she closed the door and leaned against the wall.

“Are you going to tell him?” she asked Art.

Art sighed. “That’s not a good idea.”

Angelica bit her lip and nodded. Then she said, “When he did it to me, I didn’t tell Marissa, either, at first. But she’d never made me– I’d never been with a man before that. So I wasn’t on anything… and in the end I had to tell her. You get me?”

Art blinked, processing this, feeling the world rearrange itself a little. “I’m really sorry,” he offered.

“I wish it hadn’t happened like that,” Angelica said. “But I’m glad she found out. It was a mistake, you know? Trying to do it alone.” When Art didn’t respond, she went on. “Just think about it, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay,” Art mumbled. He had no intention of telling Patrick about this night, ever, but he didn’t want to discuss it any further.

“For now, if you need to go to the hospital, the two of us can take you. Marissa will make up something to tell Patrick if she has to.”

“Thanks,” Art said, though he also had no intention of going to a hospital if he could avoid it.

Angelica straightened up. “So, you need company or privacy for this part?”

Art hesitated in his answer even though he knew what he was going to choose. “Privacy, please.”

“I hear you. I’ll be right outside,” Angelica said.

As soon as she stepped out, Art undertook the unpleasant task of cleaning himself up. He was going to have to hide these boxers in the trash as soon as he could sneak them in. Ritually burning them would have been better, actually, but that seemed like something that Patrick might notice.

When he opened the door Angelica was lingering just a foot away, as promised. Art glanced around to see if anyone was nearby before he spoke. “I don’t think I need to go to the hospital. There wasn’t– there wasn’t that much blood.”

“Alright. That’s good,” she said. “You ready to head upstairs now?”

Art wavered. “Actually…” he beckoned her back into the bathroom and shut the door. “Um, sorry, I know this is personal. But I was wondering, why did he do it to you?”

Angelica crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you mean, ‘why?’”

“Well, for me, it was because he found out that this guy at school, uh, ‘tampered’ with me. And then…”

Art confessed what had happened in the last day or so (Patrick and that girl and the drugs, begging Max to keep it a secret, Mr. Zweig hearing about it anyway), and with every word, Angelica’s face grew more and more horrified. She started shaking her head.

Finally, she broke in. “No, just– Art, no. I don’t know what he told you, but… when it happened, he wasn’t punishing me at all. He was marking his territory like a dog pissing on a hydrant. And what he did tonight, he didn’t do it because you messed up or because Patrick did or because of anything someone else did to you before. He did it because he’s a terrible fucking person, and he doesn’t think we’re human.” She reached out and cupped his cheek with her hand. “I promise you, Art, this was not your fault.”

Art had hoped he was done crying for the night, but apparently he wasn’t. Angelica stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. Art couldn’t bring himself to hug her back. He just stood there, eyes clenched shut, shoulders shaking.

After a couple of minutes, Art was finally able to get it together. He drew back, sniffling and wiping his face with his hands. “Uh, sorry. I’m sorry about that.”

“Please don’t be,” Angelica insisted.

Art nodded. “Thank you. We can– we can go up now.”

Angelica helped him hobble his way up the stairs, showing no sign of impatience when Art moved at roughly half a snail’s pace. At Patrick’s door, Angelica clasped his hand. “Good luck, Art. And remember what I told you, okay?” she said, voice soft.

“I will,” Art said. He waited for Angelica to slip into Marissa's bedroom down the hall before he opened Patrick’s door.

Patrick looked up from where he’d been pacing and was on Art at once. “What happened?”

“What do you think?” Art returned tiredly. “Help me to the bed, would you?” Patrick obediently put an arm around him; this part they had plenty of practice with.

“He’s always wanted me to be there, though,” Patrick said with a frown as he eased Art down onto his stomach.

“He said something about reminding both of us who really owns me,” Art supplied through a wince, operating under the principle that the most successful lies contained a grain of truth.

“Fucking bastard,” Patrick muttered. Then he asked, “How bad was it?”

“Bad,” Art said tightly. “He used a cane.”

“Shit.” Patrick grimaced in sympathy. “God, I fucking hate him.”

Art just looked away. It was pathetic, but even now, after the truckloads of grief Mr. Zweig had put him through, he still had trouble saying anything like that about his master aloud. Angelica officially belonged to Marissa these days, but even so, Art thought she must have had a very different upbringing than he had.

Patrick gathered himself. “Okay, let me get you the stuff.” Painkillers, cup of water, ice. Art had outgrown the stuffed dog portion of the event years ago, although honestly right now he wouldn’t have minded having it in his arms. He would’ve also liked to change his clothes and maybe take a (very, very cautious) shower. He was trying not to signal to Patrick that there was anything different about this time, though. And laying here and not moving a fucking inch for the rest of the night had its appeal, too.

Art checked himself over as Patrick went downstairs to the kitchen. Physically, he was in as much pain as he’d ever been, but emotionally… well, he wasn’t good. He wasn’t within screaming distance of good. But there was no doubt that his conversation with Angelica had taken a massive weight off of him. If this awful thing was always going to happen… God, if it really hadn’t been Art’s fault this whole time… he could stop hating himself. He might actually come through all of this… not intact. But maybe there would be something fixable on the other side.

When Patrick returned (with ice, beautiful, wonderful, blessed ice) and laid down next to him, Art gave himself over to the familiar feeling of Patrick’s skin, his body heat, his scent. And he considered the other part of what Angelica had told him, feeling like he owed it to her now to give it some legitimate thought.

He just couldn’t see it, though. Marissa might have been able to act like nothing was wrong, but Patrick wore his emotions on the outside, always had. Art’s earlier concern that Patrick might yell at his father seemed quaint right now, because if Patrick found out what had just happened, Art had a feeling that taking a goddamn swing was more likely. And then Mr. Zweig wouldn’t settle for just hurting Art.

No, he would fucking sell him.

Art drew even closer to Patrick and pressed their lips together. Patrick responded with enthusiasm, and soon the kiss was turning passionate, frenzied, each of them trying to express something they couldn’t say.

Art couldn’t let that happen. He was not going to be separated from Patrick and sold off to the highest bidder. And that meant that, until his eighteenth birthday at least, Patrick absolutely, positively could not find out what Mr. Zweig had done to him.

***

Fall 2005

There was one time before then that Art came close to telling Patrick the truth.

It had been over a year since that night. Perhaps because Angelica had been right about their master simply “marking his territory,” Mr. Zweig had never once put a hand on Art in a sexual way since then, hadn’t even threatened to, hadn’t so much as referred to it.

And Art was doing well. Really well. He’d struggled some, especially during the rest of that summer, trying to shake off the depression, trying to deal with what had happened to him. But once he was back at school, Art realized there actually was someone he trusted enough to talk to: Ms. Garcia, who readily agreed to keep the real reason for his visits off the record. That had helped a lot.

Patrick faithfully walked him to each of these appointments and hung out in the guidance office for the duration, usually playing games on his DS (which he had inevitably received for Hanukkah the moment it came out). He was still under the impression that all of this was related to Matt Byer, and he nursed a grudge against the kid that was wildly disproportionate to the reality of how much that incident had affected Art.

It had been a long time, and these days, Art felt like himself. Not exactly the same as before, but still himself. And what was more, he felt ready.

Patrick had been ribbing Art on this subject for a while now: Art was a delicate, blushing virgin, frightened of getting his cherry popped. It was annoying, obviously, but Art couldn’t get too worked up about it, given that Patrick had no way of knowing why Art had been putting this off for a year and a half while Patrick did it over and over, no sweat.

Art felt ready, and more than that, Art had every reason to think he’d like it, because they’d fooled around some in the prior weeks to great success. Just a few days ago, Patrick had tried massaging Art’s prostate during a handjob, and Art had come hard enough to streak white across his own throat. They’d do it face to face, just to avoid any slight resemblance to the worst night of Art’s life, and it would be good, it would be fun.

It didn’t quite work out that way.

It started fine. The stretch of taking Patrick’s cock inside of him burned a little, but it was nothing Art couldn’t handle, and they were kissing, and Patrick was careful with him, and the rocking motion of his hips was just starting to feel good, and then a great shuddering sob was wracking Art’s body.

Later, Art would hardly remember the next few minutes that followed, preserved only in flashes: the deep pit of anguish that had opened up out of nowhere; the unrecognizable sound that came out of his throat, nearly a howl; and of course Patrick, looking terrified, begging him to try to calm down.

When he came back to himself, Art was curled into a ball on his side, Patrick’s body wrapped around his. Art slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, feeling dizzy and a bit like he’d stepped into a neighboring dimension where the gravity was subtly different from his own.

“Hey, man. Back with the living?” Patrick asked. When Art turned to look at him, he could see that the expression on Patrick’s face was trying so hard to be a smile without hitting the mark.

“Yeah.” The word came out unintelligible, and Art had to clear his throat hard. “Yeah.”

“You wanna… tell me what the hell that was about?” Patrick said, still attempting to sound light and jokey, mostly sounding like Art had just scared the shit, fuck, and several other curse words out of him.

Art figured he’d start with what Patrick surely knew by now.

“Something bad happened to me,” he said, voice colorless. “Once.”

Patrick licked his lips, nodding. Then he said, “If it was that Byer asshole, I swear to God I will literally fucking kill him this time.”

Art put a quelling hand on Patrick’s leg. “No. No, it wasn’t him.”

“Then who?” Patrick said intently. “When did this happen?”

And for the first time in over a year – and realistically it might have been the first time, period – Art truly pictured telling Patrick about his father. Pictured finally getting it off his chest, not just to Max or Angelica or Ms. Garcia, but to the person he was closer to than any other in the world. Pictured what a relief it might be.

“I can’t do this,” were the words that burst out of Art’s mouth.

Patrick’s brow creased. “You can’t–”

“Please, Patrick,” Art implored, that same anguish bubbling back up inside of him, “please don’t make me talk about this.”

Patrick grabbed Art’s arms and gave him a shake. “Hey, no," he said, fiercely. "I’m not going to make you do anything. No one is. That’s over. Okay?”

“Okay,” Art just barely got out.

He didn’t know if he could trust something like that, coming from the person who owned him. But he desperately, desperately wanted to.

Chapter Text

Spring 2006

Tashi Duncan was an actual fucking goddess.

Art had seen it just watching her stretch her long, gorgeous legs before the match, let alone watching her fucking play, but he was reminded anew now. The sight of her dancing, swaying, twirling, toying with her hair and her dress, holy shit. You couldn’t take your eyes off her.

“Oh my God,” Art said.

“Oy,” Patrick concurred.

When Tashi signaled her need for a break to her friends and left the dance floor, Art and Patrick followed her first with their eyes, then with their bodies, moving as one to pursue her as if magnetized. Tashi was flipping her long hair over her shoulder to take a sip of her drink when they homed in on her. Patrick started speaking before they were even close.

“Hey! I’m Patrick Zweig.” Art didn’t offer his name; it was for Patrick to introduce him or not as he pleased. Though it turned out he didn’t have to.

“I know who you are,” Tashi said. “Both of you. You’re Fire and Ice, right?”

“Oh my God,” Art said again, quietly. She knew who he was. He couldn’t seem to find any other words in her presence.

“In the flesh,” Patrick agreed, smiling.

Tashi settled into her chair and gestured between the two of them. “Which one’s which?”

“What do you think?” Patrick challenged her, and Tashi gave him a lingering, flirtatious look.

Art burst in, “Ma’am, you were incredible today.”

Tashi turned her beautiful smile on him now. “Thank you.”

“No, really, I mean it wasn’t even like tennis, it was like an entirely different game,” Art continued gushing. “I felt bad for Anna.”

“Oh, uh, don’t. She’s a sore loser and a racist bitch,” Tashi said bluntly. Patrick laughed aloud, and Tashi’s eyes turned back to him. “She’ll be okay.”

Art found himself desperate to make her look at him again, so he reached for the first thing he could think of. “You’re going to Stanford, right?” He kicked himself for the choice of topic when the smile dropped off of Patrick’s face instantly. It was a sensitive subject he'd just blundered into.

Tashi seemed surprised by Art’s words and maybe a touch entertained by Patrick’s reaction. “I just accepted my offer, how’d you know that?”

“Oh, we were, uh, looking into it up until recently,” Art hedged, eyes darting nervously between her and Patrick. “The admissions people mentioned you.” And so they had, when they were still trying to entice Art to accept the scholarship. Or rather, to entice his master to accept it on his behalf.

“Yeah? Where are you going instead?”

“We’re not,” Patrick said, voice tight, and Tashi’s eyebrows shot up at the tone. Patrick adjusted, smiling again. “Why would you waste your time playing college tennis?” Art had to disguise a wince at that one.

Tashi was also put off by the question, it seemed. She didn’t answer and turned back to Art, taking another sip of her drink, but before she could say anything else, her father was getting her attention. When he spoke to her, he extended a polite smile to Art, but for some reason his expression went somewhat less friendly as his eyes passed over Patrick. Art wondered what that was about.

Tashi stood. “I have to go take pictures, so, um… it was nice meeting you both.”

“Yeah,” Art and Patrick both said, gazing at her, starry-eyed.

Tashi looked back and forth between their twin dopey smiles. “Okay,” she chortled and walked off. Art watched her go helplessly.

Behind him, Patrick sank into the chair she’d just vacated, and Art was drawn back to his side.

“Now what?” Art asked him.

“What do you mean? That was it,” Patrick said.

“You don’t want to stick around, try to talk to her again?”

“No, no, that’ll seem too desperate. We should just wait for the shuttle back to the hotel.” Patrick sounded discouraged. Art was a little surprised. He’d always known him to be more persistent than that.

“Yeah, sure. Okay,” Art said. For a long moment, the two of them just stared across the way at Tashi, smiling and posing with her trophy. Art waited for Patrick to stand up, but he didn’t. “You wanna go?” Art prodded.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Patrick agreed, barely glancing back at Art. He still didn’t move from his seat, eyes locked in her direction.

Slowly, a fond smile crept over Art’s face. He shook his head. He should have known.

***

They waited a long, boring wait, but it paid off when they saw Tashi again and she consented to go down to the beach with them while they smoked.

Tashi perched on a rock and turned out toward the water, gazing at the ocean with her hair fluttering in the breeze, looking like nothing so much as a mermaid.

“So, I have to ask you about this Stanford thing,” Patrick said after a while, and Art steeled himself.

“Okay,” Tashi said, gamely enough.

“What’s the angle? Why do you wanna go beat up on a bunch of girls who were the best players at their high schools?” The question was directed at Tashi, but the jab at Art came through loud and clear, as well.

Tashi turned back to him, amused. “I thought you were looking into it, too?”

“I was,” Patrick said begrudgingly. “For Art.”

“Were you?” Tashi said, and she gave Art a brief, curious look before turning back to Patrick. “Well, you know they offer classes in college? I don’t want my only skill in life to be hitting a ball with a racket.”

“I get it. You’re making us wait for you,” Patrick said. His voice had been admiring, but now it turned mocking. “The eighteen year old tennis phenomenon who cares about her education.” Art could only silently hope he was done being a dick and embarrassing them both in front of Tashi now.

Tashi’s eyebrows went up. “Is this why you came to my party?”

“It’s brilliant, seriously,” Patrick continued. “I can already see the Adidas campaign.” Okay, apparently he was not.

“And when are you going pro?” Tashi demanded, finally turning to face him fully.

“Soon as I can,” Patrick said. Tashi’s eyes flicked to Art, and she tilted her head. He had been quiet up until that point, letting the free people talk, but he spoke up to answer her unasked question.

“Where he goes, I go,” Art said lightly. He did not allow the pang of bitterness he felt to enter his voice.

Throughout most of his junior year, Art had continuously chickened out every time he tried to raise the issue of college with Patrick. Finally Ms. Garcia had to gently bully him into bringing Patrick to one of their sessions so she could do it for him. And Patrick, despite a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the idea… hadn’t quite shot it down. Perhaps that was because the hope on Art’s face was as evident to him as the trepidation on his was to Art.

As Art had predicted, the Zweigs proved no obstacle to his applying to college. Mr. Zweig, of course, seized the opportunity to take shots at Patrick, how embarrassing it was that even his own slave was putting in applications to schools while Patrick was not. But though he made a plug for his own alma mater, Yale, he and Mrs. Zweig both made it clear they would sign off on whichever scholarship offer Patrick chose. And Patrick made it equally clear that he did not want to choose any of these offers. With every discussion they had about it, Patrick grew gloomier and gloomier, and Art’s heart sank further and further. In the end, Art hadn’t exactly come right out and explained to Patrick how badly he wanted this, and Patrick hadn’t exactly come right out and forbidden it. It was something of a stalemate. And, well.

Draws went to the guy who owned you, didn’t they?

For the first time since they’d sat down, Patrick actually looked at Art, giving his words an appreciative smile. Then he turned back to Tashi and went on. “Hitting a ball with a racket is a great way to avoid having a job.”

“Well, that’s also your problem,” Tashi said. “Cause you think that tennis is about expressing yourself, doing your thing.” Art listened to her explain it to them: tennis was a relationship. Tashi had felt it with Anna, briefly, like they were in love, or like they didn’t exist. Art didn’t know that he had the same connection to tennis that Tashi had, but something in him recognized her words. He had felt that, too, playing with Patrick, when they were at their best, their most in-sync. Tashi was hypnotic when she spoke, always, but especially about this. Not just stunningly beautiful and explosively talented, then; not just sharp and perceptive, either. She was wise, too.

“You screamed,” Art put in, almost dreamy, “when you hit the winner. I’ve never heard anything like it before.” Patrick faded away, just for a moment, and he and Tashi were alone on that beach, looking at each other. He could see it in her face: she knew Art had recognized her, too. Tashi gave him a small, closed-mouth smile, different from the friendly or polite or teasing ones he’d seen earlier. He smiled back, utterly weak for it. Art wanted to do anything to keep her looking at him like that. Anything.

Then Tashi broke away. “I should go. Before my dad comes looking for me.” She grabbed her shoes and stood, starting to walk off.

“Wait,” Patrick said. “Are you on Facebook?”

“What?”

“He’s asking for your number,” Art supplied helpfully.

She looked at Patrick. “You want my number?” she said.

“Yeah.”

Tashi turned to Art, then. “And what do you think? Should I give it to him?”

Art glanced between them, at the little smirk on Patrick’s face and the interest on Tashi’s, like she really wanted to hear what he had to say. “I would never tell you what to do, ma’am,” he demurred, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Next to him, Patrick released a groaning laugh. Then he said, “Why don’t you come hang out with us later? They put you up at the hotel in Flushing, right? We’re in room 206.”

“Want me to come tuck you in?” Tashi taunted him.

“No…” Patrick said. “We can just keep talking. About tennis.”

“Good night,” Tashi said firmly and began to walk away.

“We have beer!” Patrick called to her retreating back.

Tashi scoffed without turning around. “Okay.”

As she disappeared up the path, Patrick shot Art an accusatory look. “‘I would never tell you what to do?’ Asshole!”

Art ducked his head, smiling, and made no effort to defend himself.

***

Patrick slammed his fist on the busted air conditioning unit.

“It’s broken,” Art called pointedly from his position on the bed. As Patrick knew perfectly well, thus them laying around in their boxers, trying to tempt a nonexistent breeze in through the window. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t think she’s coming.”

“She might,” Patrick said around the cigarette clamped in his mouth, before resuming his task of trying to toss playing cards into his Doubles trophy.

“Well, excuse me if I don’t cry myself to sleep tonight if she doesn’t,” Art said.

“What are you talking about? Like you don’t want to see her as bad as I do?”

“I do,” Art admitted easily, “but I wasn’t exactly looking forward to, you know, sitting in the bathroom while you made out with her.”

Patrick leaned over to stub out his cigarette on the windowsill and then climbed onto the bed next to Art. “Don’t be like that. She wants both of us, trust me.” He began kissing Art’s neck, determined as always to get something started whether or not Tashi showed up.

“Yeah, if you say so.” Art lifted his chin to give Patrick room.

Then, the sound of their lives changing: a knock at the door.

They both froze where they lay, perfectly still for a full ten seconds.

The knock came again, and this time it activated them. Patrick threw himself up bodily and snagged Art’s button-up from the chair while Art flipped over backwards to grab an old Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy t-shirt off the floor. They ran around putting the room to rights as Art cursed himself for letting the place get to such disarray. He just hadn’t really believed she was going to come, but here she was, holy fuck.

After a few seconds, they both ran to the door. Art threw it open.

“Hi!” “Hey!” they said breathlessly, failing to sound the least bit cool.

A minute later they were sitting on the floor, Tashi and Patrick facing each other with Art between them, all passing around their last can of beer.

“So, did you two grow up together? You seem really close.”

“I got Art when I was twelve,” Patrick provided.

“Oh, right, right, right – he was a slave in trust, wasn’t he?” Tashi grinned. “Let me guess, he was your birthday present that year? Did you get a Beemer on your sixteenth, too?”

At just that moment, Art was compelled to cough, and somehow it came out sounding exactly like “itwasaLexus.”

Tashi laughed, and Patrick rocked backwards, spreading his hands and rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, accepting that he had been completely skewered.

“I take it you never had one?” Patrick asked her.

“A slave? No, no, no, no. We couldn’t afford it,” Tashi said, taking the can from Art. “And even if we could, we never would have gotten one because my dad’s an abolitionist.”

An awkward silence. And my, didn’t Art suddenly find the fibers of the carpet just fascinating.

Plenty of people were liberal, of course; plenty of people believed in expanding rights and protections for slaves. But announcing your dad was an abolitionist was a bit like announcing he was an ecoterrorist, the kind of “left-wing nutjob” Mr. Zweig railed against at the dinner table. It was a pretty ballsy thing to say in front of a slave and his owner. But Art was kind of starting to get the sense that Tashi had no fear. Despite the discomfort of the moment, Art felt his admiration for her grow.

“And what do you think?” Patrick asked, a touch of coolness now in his voice.

Tashi shrugged and took a sip of beer. “I’m a pragmatist. I think if selling yourself gets your family off the streets or out from under a mountain of debt or something, you should have the right to do it.”

Patrick and Art nodded, and the tension in the room eased. That was a more mainstream opinion, the viewpoint presented by every history textbook Art had ever had. In the Bad Old Days, people were snatched from their homes and forced into servitude, shipped around the world to God only knew where and worked to death in horrific conditions. Now the international slave trade was regulated extremely tightly in most places so that the vast majority of slaves were sold domestically, and in the U.S. at least, there were all kinds of laws to prevent slaves from being killed or maimed or permanently damaged by uncaring owners. And of course, sad stories of illegal human trafficking aside, now you chose to sell yourself, and your family or whoever you picked would receive the proceeds of your sale. You could make a deal with a specific buyer or submit yourself for auction to try to get the highest possible price, whichever you wanted.

He did notice that Tashi hadn't brought up the matter of people like Art, slaves who were born into it. That was a bit more controversial. There were some who thought such slaves should be freed at a certain age, sixteen or eighteen or whatever. Not that something like that would ever affect Art, even if it did become the law, because it wouldn’t work retroactively. But still, it was nice to think about, the idea that little slave kids in the future really would dream about what they wanted to do when they grew up, as Patrick had once asked him.

Tashi quirked a wry smile. “Okay, no more politics, I promise. Do you own Art outright yet?” She passed the can to Patrick.

“Next month,” Patrick said, grinning wolfishly before taking a sip. “I have some plans.”

“That he won’t tell me about,” Art chimed in, rolling his eyes.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Patrick asked him.

“And I mean, if you’ve been together all this time, I take it that the two of you…” Tashi bobbed her head between the two of them suggestively.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Patrick said. Art nodded, too, feeling his cheeks go a little pink for reasons he didn’t understand. Most people looked at them and knew in about two seconds that they were having sex, and it didn’t normally bother him.

“Have you ever had anyone get jealous of that? Like, what does your girlfriend think?”

“Me?” Patrick said, putting his hands against his chest, the very picture of innocence. “I’m free as a bird.” And Art tried, he would swear he really tried to smother the smile that rose to his face when he thought of the way Jen would’ve ripped Patrick’s testicles right off, hearing him say that. But Tashi didn’t miss a trick.

“Uh-huh,” she said, spotting it immediately and lifting her eyebrows at Patrick. Then she looked back at Art. “And you, are you pretending not to have a girlfriend, too?”

“Art’s in between ladies,” Patrick stated diplomatically, and Art laughed.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s one way to put it,” he said, shaking his head.

“Meaning?” Tashi asked.

“Meaning relationships are… complicated,” Art said, hooking a finger in his collar and giving it a significant tug.

“Huh. Yeah, I can see that,” Tashi replied, and Art wondered if she could.

Patrick had never minded if Art wanted to ask slave girls out– or boys, for that matter, these things being somewhat more flexible when it came to slaves. But it’s not like their school was huge in the first place, and the population of slaves within it was small enough that Art learned fast how dramatic and tangled things could get when it came to dating. Add in the fact that not every owner was as permissive as Patrick was, shrinking the pool even more, and, well, Art had basically stopped trying.

The situation was actually more acute than Patrick knew because most of what Art told him were “dates” were more like small gatherings, hangouts. The slave students congregated in groups under the bleachers or in the maintenance shed with the broken lock or wherever they could find to get out from their masters' or mistresses' eyeline for a couple hours and relax.

Or they were something else entirely. One “date” that Art had gone on that year had involved walking a friend of his down to Medical because her mistress’s boyfriend had gotten rough with her, and she was still bleeding two days later. Patrick had given him a consolation blowjob afterwards when Art “confessed” that he’d only gotten to second base that night.

None of that meant he didn’t have sex with girls, of course. It just meant those girls were usually Patrick’s girlfriends, not his.

As if reading his mind, Tashi knelt up and said, “But… how often does this happen?” She circled her finger to indicate their current situation. “You two and a girl?”

“Not that often,” Patrick said. “I’m kind of selective about who I share Art with. She has to be both of our type.” Art’s eyes flickered away from him for just a second, then back.

“Oh, so you’re saying I should be flattered?” Tashi asked.

“No…” Patrick trailed off.

Art said, “Well. Aren’t you everybody’s type?” He and Tashi shared a long moment of eye contact before she turned away, now successfully flattered. She and Patrick exchanged little smiles, too, pleased with him.

“How about the two of you, though?” Tashi said. “Did that happen right away, or did it take a while…?”

“It was pretty fast,” Patrick said.

“It took a while,” Art said at the exact same time.

Tashi laughed, looking back and forth at them.

“What are you talking about?” Art asked Patrick, shaking his head. “It was almost two years before we actually had sex.”

“Well, okay, fine, but it was only about two weeks before– you know.”

“That doesn’t count!” Art protested.

“I mean, I think it does,” Patrick argued.

“What are we talking about here?” Tashi asked, intrigued. “I think you need to tell me now.”

“Don’t–” Art cut himself off and closed his eyes, already resigning himself to his fate.

“Why not? I think it’s a sweet story!” Patrick said.

“Well, let’s hear it,” Tashi encouraged him.

“Yeah, no, go ahead,” Art muttered, lowering his head and hiding his face first behind his hand, then in his shirt collar.

“Uh, that first summer I got him, a couple weeks in– I taught Art how to jerk off.”

Tashi, visibly amused, gestured broadly between them as if to say, Oh, of course.

Art emerged from his t-shirt to take over. “Patrick– Patrick was an early bloomer, okay, and I think that I was on time…”

As he told the story, with commentary by Patrick, Art felt himself blush more and more, most deeply when Patrick had to go and describe him laying there coated in "milk," of course, the dickhead. He'd kind of thought he’d given up on having dignity in front of free people, but apparently not. Apparently he cared what Tashi thought of him, at least. He cared a lot.

“Right, okay,” Tashi said when they were done. “And what about Angelica, did anything ever end up happening with her?”

“No! No, my sister would’ve killed me.” Patrick was chuckling from far away and, from the sounds of it, possibly underwater because Art had been slammed elsewhere, instantly, without warning, into a bathroom with a hand on his cheek, hearing the words I promise you, Art, this was not your fault, just before the dam burst and he lost it again.

He wrenched himself out of there and back to the hotel room, struggling to keep his face neutral, body language casual.

Tashi gave him an odd sidelong look but thankfully did not question him. Instead she turned back to Patrick and said, “Yeah, no, you’re right, that is a very cute story.” Then she tipped the Budweiser can back to finish it and placed it on the floor with a firm clink. “We’re out of beer.”

They all looked at each other for several long seconds. There was hope and uncertainty on Art and Patrick’s faces, but Tashi looked more like she was choosing a play. She rose to her feet. She glanced around, first at the two of them, then at the room. Finally, she took a seat on the beds they’d pushed together.

“Come here,” she said. The two of them sat there on the floor for a second, staring at her. Then Patrick was shoving himself up to join her and Art was following him. They settled on either side of her.

Tashi swiveled her head between the two of them, back and forth. She moved in a little toward Patrick, but it was a feint, and then she turned back to Art, instead. He waited to see if she was faking him out, too, but she wasn’t, she was kissing him, slow and sweet, her hands on him now. He slipped one of his around to her lower back and then the other to her thigh as Tashi pulled him in, directing him with a light grip on his face, the back of his head. Then her hands were dropping down to his chest and she was pushing him back so, so gently. He lingered there, their faces less than an inch apart, unable to give her up of his own free will.

She finally left him, though, and gave Patrick his turn. Art’s cock, already twitching, began to stiffen up even more just watching them kiss. Patrick was as eager as ever, and Tashi seemed to be matching him and restraining him at the same time.

Then Tashi swayed back to the middle of them and, looking straight ahead, she flipped her hair back to give them access, the message obvious. Synchronized, they each reached out to hold the strands out of the way and brought their mouths to the sides of her neck. Art moved to lick and suck at her earlobe, and then her hand was on his face, drawing him in, and Patrick was there too, and for a long moment all three of their faces were pressed together, tongues working. Art shifted to kiss across her face and down to her neck, but she was pulling him back toward her mouth, and after a second of that same threeway chaos, Art felt her move away.

What was left was the familiar feeling of his master’s lips on his, and Art felt no less needy for him than for Tashi. He was fully erect now, and he kissed Patrick hard, feeling Patrick's palm against his face, his neck, reaching out in return to slide a hand into Patrick’s open shirt, brushing a nipple to make him sigh.

“Okay.”

He and Patrick broke apart, turning to Tashi. She tilted her face toward Art and smiled, small and private.

“What now?”

“Um,” Art said brilliantly. “What?”

“Well, you think I should stay, right?” Tashi asked him.

“Yes,” he answered at once.

“So what are you going to do with me? With us?”

Art flicked his eyes back and forth between Tashi and Patrick, heart pounding for reasons of both excitement and nervousness. “Why… why me?”

“Because I want to do what you want,” Tashi told him, pinning him with her gaze. “Patrick does, too. Don’t you, Patrick?” She put a hand on Patrick’s face, thumb over his lips. Patrick’s tongue darted out to swipe at the tip.

“Yeah,” Patrick said greedily. “Yeah, I do.”

“So tell us, Art. What do you want?” Tashi said, hitting every word in the question like a drum. And then their eyes were on him, watching, waiting for an answer.

And it should have been a simple question, right? Because he wanted her, God, so fucking bad. Patrick, too, if not quite as feverishly. But when he tried to reach for it – What did he want? What did Art want? – he found…

Nothing.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have sex. Actually, if someone didn’t touch his aching-hard cock soon, he thought he might fucking die. And he didn’t think it was the little part of him that was still standing in that bathroom with Angelica, either, though that was also a distraction. It was just… with Patrick and Tashi both staring at him like that, the answer was evading him, turning to mist under his hand as he searched with increasing franticness. How could that be possible? How could someone want so strongly and not be able to say what the fuck it was they wanted?

They had no idea of the turmoil Tashi had just thrown him into. Art had to end his stupid goddamn crisis and speak, now. He pivoted:

What would make them happy? What did they want? And since they wanted what he wanted, supposedly, what would they believe he wanted?

“I want to eat you out,” Art blurted, “while Patrick rides me.”

Jackpot.

Thank God. Hungry smiles were spreading across both of their faces. Art tried to hide the rush of relief he felt. Whatever the fuck that was about, he’d deal with it later.

Tashi reached for the zipper of her little pink sweatshirt. She started to pull it down, and then she looked back up at Art and Patrick, staring at her with their mouths slightly ajar. “Well?” she said.

They both began ripping off their clothes with comic speed.

Art might have expected to feel some self-consciousness, standing naked in front of Tashi. He found he couldn’t spare the brainpower, however, when Tashi was also naked in front of him.

“Come here,” she said again, and this time neither of them hesitated, joining her on the bed, on their knees like she was. Patrick dove in to kiss her on the lips, so Art went for her now-bare shoulder and put a hand on her hip, sliding it upwards as he worked his way up toward her neck and Tashi’s hand went to his back. Kissing the underside of her jaw, Art telegraphed the movement of his hand so she could stop him, but she didn’t, and then he was cupping her breast, squeezing gently and brushing his thumb over her nipple as it started to pebble underneath him. She broke away from Patrick to kiss him instead, energetically, pushing her chest into his hand, then all of a sudden she pulled back.

“Lie down,” Tashi said, sounding a bit breathless. Art complied at once, wiggling into place. To Patrick, she said, “You have what you need?”

“Yeah! Yeah,” Patrick said, jumping up to go dig out their lube.

Tashi settled next to Art’s head, sitting on her heels. She brushed his bangs back from his eyes and said, “Now?”

Art nodded.

Tashi swung a leg across him, and Art saw Patrick coming back to the bed just before she lowered herself down over him, slowly, and then he was only seeing the swell of her ass and, above it, her hair sweeping over her back. She was straddling him backwards, presumably so she could face Patrick, and Art had to take a second to orient himself– he’d never actually done this from this angle. Tashi was wet already, and Art put out his tongue to collect some of it, closing his eyes at the taste of her. He was just getting to work, flattening his tongue and tilting his head to drag across her in long strokes, when he felt her fingertips ghosting along his dick, teasing him. He huffed a breath against her and reached up to squeeze her thighs.

Art’s one regret about his choice in sex acts was that he couldn’t see what Patrick and Tashi were up to, couldn’t watch them kiss (though he could hear them) or know if Patrick was fingering himself already or if Tashi was helping him out, but nevermind. They had their jobs, and he had his. He swept his tongue up the channel between Tashi's labia and her clit on either side, then brushed over it lightly, trying to gauge whether she was too sensitive for the direct contact. When she didn’t squirm away, he passed his tongue over her clit a few more times, lapping more firmly, which made her shift her hips, pressing down against him harder.

Art tried hard to stay on task despite the sensation of hands stroking him and cupping his balls, first Tashi’s and then Patrick’s, spreading lube over him. He switched up his motions, rubbing, flicking, and sucking by turns, feeling Tashi getting wetter and wetter. He broke, however, and had to take a couple seconds to just moan against her when Patrick finally straddled him and started to sink down on his cock, the hot grip of his body as good as ever. Art heard Tashi laughing a little, and he turned his head to give the inside of her thigh a quick bite that made her jump. She slapped his stomach, and then he laughed, too, before getting back to it.

He lost himself in it, Tashi’s scent and her taste, the sensation of Patrick rocking down on him, the sounds they made, and he became detached from the passage of time. Eventually he took a hand off of Tashi’s perfect ass and offered it to Patrick, expecting it to be wrapped around Patrick’s dick, but instead Patrick grabbed his wrist and pushed his hand underneath Patrick’s tight sack. Art felt movement tugging the skin above him and gathered that Tashi was already stroking Patrick’s cock. He used his palm to put a light pressure against Patrick’s balls and his fingers to make rhythmic little circles against his perineum, pressing and relaxing, just the way he liked. Patrick swore and started rocking harder.

Tashi, meanwhile, had taken over with Art. He used his lips and tongue where he could, but for the most part at that point he just let her grind and thrust against his chin and the bone of his nose, apparently liking the pressure. Every inch of his face was soaked in her wetness. Art laid beneath them while they both used his various body parts to chase their own orgasms, and fuck, he had to clench his muscles hard to keep from coming at that thought.

Then Art heard Patrick moan louder, hips stuttering and losing their rhythm, and he felt a couple drops of fluid hitting his body. Shortly afterward Patrick was pushing his hand away and starting to lift off of Art’s cock. Before it could mourn the loss too much, Patrick was fisting it, tugging roughly, and Art gasped into Tashi's pelvis, finally letting go as his orgasm struck him, extended and powerful.

The movement of Tashi’s hips eased gradually before finally stopping. Then she pulled away from Art's face, leaving him blinking in the full light again. Patrick, covered in cum just as Art was, gave him a lazy, satisfied smile.

“You good?” Art croaked to Tashi. He passed an arm over his face to wipe the fluid off of it.

“I was ‘good’ a couple times,” Tashi acknowledged. When he smiled, she warned him, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, half-playfully and half-sincerely, sitting up slowly as he felt rather lightheaded.

Tashi rolled her eyes. “Ten seconds ago your tongue was in my vagina, so maybe knock it off with the ‘ma’am’ crap.” She softened the bluntness by moving in for a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. Then she pulled away and gestured Patrick in for the same. Then she stood, stretched, and grabbed her shorts off the floor. “Okay. It’s been fun, but I’m going to bed.”

“What about your number?” Patrick asked immediately.

“Well, I would say that you could have my number if you won your match tomorrow, but you’re playing against your own slave,” Tashi pointed out, pulling her tank top back over her head. She paused with her sweatshirt in her hands and turned to Art. “You can beat him, you know that? You should beat him, actually.”

“Are you saying you want me to?” Art asked. His heartbeat had started to slow after the exertion had ended, but it was kicking up again at that idea.

“I want to watch some good fucking tennis,” Tashi replied, pulling up her zipper. She looked back at Patrick. “Show me something decent, and I’ll think about giving you my number.” She bestowed upon them one more little smile. “Good night.” And with that she walked out of the room.

Patrick flung himself backwards onto the bed, arms out. “I think I can die now. Cause this? Was definitely the best fucking day of my life.”

Art didn't look at him. He was too busy staring at the door, at the last place he'd seen her standing, this free girl who wanted to do what he wanted, whatever the hell that was, and his heart was beating Tashi, Tashi, Tashi.

Chapter Text

Summer 2006

The night before Patrick’s eighteenth birthday, the two of them got a hotel room.

At midnight, Patrick sprang to his feet on the bed and yowled his victory to the ceiling, making Art cackle.

“Shut up, dumbass! Normal people are trying to sleep,” Art shushed him, grinning, but then Patrick was tugging him up to join him and they were both jumping up and down on the king-size bed, laughing and hugging and yelling like fools, heedless of their neighbors because it was over, and Robert Zweig was never going to touch Art ever again. Patrick wasn’t even aware of the full extent of it, but he’d seen his father hurt Art enough for several lifetimes, and now that was done, and they were both giddy with the knowledge.

After some loud, vigorous, gymnastic sex, they sprawled out on the bed while Patrick popped the bottle of champagne he’d procured with his fake ID. He took a long drink. Then:

“Oh, hey!” he cried, swinging back in to peck Art on the lips once more. “You have to say the thing now! Like we practiced!”

“Patrick…”

“I’m dead serious, come on! ‘My dad…’” Patrick fed him helpfully.

Art sighed in amused exasperation, rolling his eyes. “‘...is a piece of shit, and he should rot in hell,’” he recited of his now-former master.

Patrick smiled and bit his lip, squinting. “God, that's the sexiest thing you've ever said to me.”

Art rolled his eyes again. “You are so stupid.” But he didn’t stop Patrick from moving closer and kissing him again, this time more deeply.

When they broke apart, Patrick handed Art the champagne so he could take a swig. Then he stood and started rummaging in his duffel bag, pulling out two wrapped items.

“I got you a couple things,” Patrick said, placing these in Art’s lap and settling back next to him.

“Aw, buddy,” Art cooed, putting his free hand sympathetically on Patrick’s shoulder. “Did you forget how birthdays work again?”

Underneath the joke, he really did feel kind of bad. He had nothing for Patrick, had never been able to get him a real birthday present in all the time they’d known each other. It wasn't like Art had any cash with which to buy one, except for whatever pocket money Patrick thought to give him for snacks and so forth. He mostly relied on sex to treat Patrick on his birthdays, other than just generally going along with whatever Patrick wanted to do.

Patrick swatted his hand away and snagged the bottle back from him. “Shut up and open them already,” he said with obvious anticipation.

Art looked over the objects in his lap. They were both rectangular, one a bit smaller but thicker, wrapped sort of haphazardly with too much tape and burgundy paper that Art thought he recognized from previous holidays. The bigger one was in crisp, perfect gold paper like it had maybe been gift-wrapped by a professional in a store. He lifted the dark red one and gave Patrick a silent, questioning look. Patrick nodded his approval of starting with that.

The box inside contained a phone, a BlackBerry. Art had never owned a cell phone. Patrick had one, of course, and Art had used it plenty of times, but the Zweigs had never given him one of his own.

“I figured it was practical. You know, just in case we get separated or something, since we’re gonna be traveling around so much.”

“Thanks,” Art said back. That was thoughtful of him.

“I’ll put my number in there and Tashi’s, too, so you guys can text,” Patrick continued offhandedly, and Art hoped his face didn’t give away the fact that his heart had leaped at those words, at the thought of being able to talk to Tashi on his own, even just through text messages. The phone was a slave model, as was required by law, and copies of his call log and messages would be stored on Patrick’s phone, as well, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t necessarily that he planned to say something to her that he wanted to hide from Patrick, anyway. It was only the idea of having a conversation with her that was just one-on-one, without Patrick also present or acting as an intermediary on a phone call. It was giving him a fluttery feeling in his stomach.

Art set the box with the phone down next to him and moved on to the other package. Patrick’s face looked kind of nervous, now, which made Art all the more curious what it could be.

The gold paper contained a black box with a fancy gold store logo printed on it. Art opened it.

Inside was a collar. It was made of fabric like the one Art had grown up with, only it was dark blue and felt thicker, sturdier than that one had been. There was no decoration to it like the embroidery on the one Art was wearing, but the outer layer looked to be silk, and it caught the light prettily when Art held it up. It was beautiful in its own, more understated, way.

The red collar that the Zweigs’ slaves wore wasn’t gaudy, per se – Art had seen horrid things in zebra print or covered in rhinestones and thought there but for the grace of God – but it was sort of… flashy? And Art had never felt quite right in it. He hadn’t realized Patrick would notice something like that. Or that he would consider that Art might not want to wear Mr. Zweig’s collar for any longer than he had to.

Art felt his throat getting a bit thick.

“Should I do it now?” Patrick said, voice low. Art nodded.

Patrick put down the champagne bottle and stood. Art followed him over to a mirror on the wall and stood in front of him, both of them still naked.

Patrick’s hands came up to unbuckle the leather collar from his neck for the last time. His touch was nearly as familiar as Art’s own, and it didn’t make Art want to shiver like it had the first time around. But the moment felt exactly as intimate as it had then, for an entirely different set of reasons. Art accepted the old collar from Patrick and handed him the new one. Patrick put it around Art’s neck and fastened it so it felt neither too tight nor too loose. Then they were both looking at Art in the mirror.

“What do you think?” Patrick asked him, voice still hushed. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” Art said simply. It felt lighter than the other one had. And it looked right on him, too.

He turned around to face Patrick, and then they were kissing, unhurried, tender. Art dropped his old red collar onto the floor so he could touch Patrick with both hands, backing him towards the bed.

The two of them knelt, leaning up against the pillows, and Art slid a hand down Patrick’s chest and stomach to his groin, palming the half-erection there lightly. Patrick exhaled against his mouth and moved his own hand from Art’s hip to his cock, starting to stroke him. They began to kiss more firmly as their bodies responded, then Patrick broke away to put his forehead against Art’s shoulder, moaning. Art used his free hand to pet through Patrick’s hair, kissing the side of his head.

After a few more minutes, with his pre-cum slippery under Art’s hand, Patrick tipped his head back in bliss, mouth open. He started to speak in fragments. “God, Art… can’t believe… can’t believe how good you feel… I fucking… I fucking… I lo–”

Art cut him off with his mouth, feeling little frissons of panic going up his spine. He knew by now, of course. He knew what Patrick… thought he felt for Art. It was just. It was one thing for Patrick to say it while stoned or mostly asleep or partially joking, but this was different. Art didn’t know, exactly, why this scared him so much, but it did. It felt like their champagne bottle, only this one was all shaken up, the cork holding back some great big mess, and once freed, it would all come blasting out, drenching them, impossible to put back. Maybe some of what came out would be good, but Art had the sinister, insistent premonition that a lot of it was not, perhaps less a bottle of champagne and more a fucking volcano preparing to blow. Either way, he couldn’t let Patrick say the thing he was trying to say. Art kissed him harder to soothe the fear he felt spiraling through his body.

When he pulled back, Patrick was scanning his face, studying him. Art didn’t know what his expression was doing, but he thought maybe his eyes were pleading with Patrick. A series of emotions crossed Patrick’s face, too fast for Art to follow, but then he seemed to settle on something like resignation. Relief and guilt entwined filled Art’s chest, and he pushed his face into Patrick’s throat so he didn’t have to look at him anymore.

Their hands were moving fast now, and Art was so, so close. He came over Patrick’s fist with a long cry. While he finished Patrick off, Patrick’s clean hand came up to grip the back of Art’s neck, not quite painfully but tightly, holding him against Patrick’s body until Patrick was coming too, panting hard through his nose.

Afterwards, cleaned up and once more drinking champagne, they cuddled against one another and tried to pretend that nothing important had just happened.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going now?” Art asked, aiming for a casual tone. Patrick had instructed him to pack like they were going to be gone for several days but otherwise was being enigmatic about it.

“In the morning, when we’re on our way.”

Art sighed.

“Just be patient,” Patrick said, kissing the top of his head. Hypocrite, Art thought. Like Patrick had ever been patient about anything in his life. “Anyway, we should probably get some rest. It’s a pretty long drive.”

“Yeah, okay,” Art replied. He set the bottle aside, the remainder of its contents mostly flat anyway.

***

The next morning, after they’d both gotten off (Patrick crowding Art against the shower wall, rubbing their cocks together while they made out hungrily) and after they’d checked out of the hotel and eaten breakfast and gotten on the highway, Art finally asked again.

“Okay, now are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, “I guess I can do that now.”

And then nothing else.

Art lifted his eyes up and took a deep breath, praying for fortitude. Then he spoke with exaggerated patience. “Okay, Patrick. Where are we going?”

“Indiana.”

And it was so far afield from Art’s mind that he actually said the words, “What’s in Indiana?” while looking out the window and casting his mind about for tennis-related things or some landmark that Patrick had ever expressed interest in.

Patrick laughed at him wholeheartedly. “Is that a real question?”

It took him a couple seconds. Then Art’s neck actually cracked, so fast did he snap his head around to look at Patrick.

“No. No, Patrick, you can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack, baby.”

“We– we can’t!”

“And yet we are!”

“They’ll never let us, I’ve told you–”

“‘No contact,’ yeah, yeah, I got it,” Patrick said around his cigarette. “But you’ve also told me they both work, right?”

“Yeah…” Art replied. Mrs. Donaldson was a nurse employed by a… gynecologist, he thought, maybe? While Mr. Donaldson did something with insurance that he couldn't exactly recall now, if he’d ever known.

“So, we show up in the middle of the day tomorrow, and who’s going to stop us?” was Patrick’s fool-proof logic.

Art could think of ten million things that could go wrong with this plan. “Patrick, this is a terrible idea,” he said, feeling his stress levels rising.

“Yeah, whatever. Come on, you don’t want to at least try? Like you’re not dying to see her?”

Art didn’t allow himself to think of his grandmother that much, but there was a hole inside of him that was shaped like her. He felt full of so many conflicting feelings right now that he thought he might throw up, only instead of bile and undigested food, confetti and candy hearts and possibly shards of glass would burst out of him.

When Art didn’t respond, Patrick went on, sounding less confident now. “Look, if you don’t want to go, obviously we don’t have to, I just…” he trailed off with a sigh.

If he were truly worried about getting his grandmother in trouble, Art would've made Patrick turn the car around in a heartbeat, but he wasn't. He'd seen Mrs. Donaldson slap his grandma in the face once when he was about six – he couldn't remember why – but otherwise the Donaldsons didn't physically hurt her and rarely punished her at all. They weren’t nice people, exactly, but they weren’t evil, either. And Art knew in his heart that she'd want to see him as badly as he wanted to see her, even if it did mean getting punished.

“No,” Art told Patrick soberly. “No, we do have to go.”

Art spent the next three or so hours trying to distract himself from his wild thoughts, listening to music and looking out the window and smoking too many cigarettes and playing with his new phone. Patrick had put Tashi’s number in it at breakfast, and Art had texted her so she’d have his number, too. Tashi had responded with a single smiley face, and Art couldn’t stop looking at it. Ordinarily he might’ve tried to strike up a conversation with her or at least ask how she was doing, but right now he was a nervous wreck, and he didn’t trust himself to compose messages that weren’t those of an insane person.

There was one thought in particular that was plaguing Art, and when they pulled into a rest stop in Massachusetts to grab a bite, gas up the car, and switch drivers for a while, he finally gave voice to it.

“What if she’s not there anymore?” he asked Patrick. “What if they moved? What if– what if she died?”

Patrick gave him a sympathetic look. He pulled Art in by the back of his head to kiss him. “That would suck. But you’d want to know, wouldn’t you?”

Art nodded. He would.

***

The two of them stayed the night at a hotel in Ohio. Art was far too edgy to think of anything especially creative for the occasion, but fortunately Tashi stepped up with some birthday phone sex, demanding on speakerphone that Patrick describe to her how Art’s lips looked right then, stretched around Patrick’s cock, how good Art was with his tongue, how his fingers felt inside of Patrick. With their powers combined, Patrick seemed to have a pretty good birthday, despite having spent almost all of it in the car.

They arrived in Art’s hometown in the early afternoon the next day. Art had to pull the car over when they were about ten minutes away in order to dry heave on the side of the road while Patrick rubbed his back and made fun of him, but gently.

Parked in front of the house, Art tried to convince himself that it meant nothing that there was a car that he didn’t recognize in the driveway. It didn’t mean there were strangers living in this house now, or worse, that one of the Donaldsons was home, and he’d be turned away at the door, just feet from his grandmother. Everything was going to be fine.

He started to move toward the house before he realized that Patrick wasn’t with him but was instead going through his bag in the backseat, looking for something.

“What are you doing?” Art asked.

Patrick came away waving a folder, looking pleased with himself. “Just one more surprise. I’ll tell you later.”

“Fine,” Art said absently, unable to focus on that right now. They walked to the front door, where Art rang the bell, sweating a little for reasons he didn’t think were related to the July sun.

The door opened, and with a sinking feeling Art saw that the woman answering it was also unfamiliar. Maybe they really had moved. She was a slave, perhaps thirty years old, tall, with light brown hair. She barely glanced at Art before turning her attention to the free person on her doorstep.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yeah, we were hoping you could tell us if, um, Lillian Harper lives here?” Patrick said.

The woman gave them a guarded look. “Yes, she does… but, I’m sorry, who–”

A voice came from behind her. “Celia, who is it?”

Celia stepped aside, revealing a dark-haired young woman about Art and Patrick’s age. Despite the obvious context clues, it still took Art a moment to place her, but for some reason she didn’t seem to have that problem.

“Art!” Kaylee cried, delighted. She ran up and hugged him where he stood. After some time, Art hugged her back. She stepped away to look at him and Patrick with a hand still on his arm. “Um, come in, I guess! Both of you.”

Art and Patrick walked through the door, and Celia closed it, looking a little less wary now that Kaylee had recognized one of them.

“What are you doing here?” Kaylee asked.

“Uh–”

“Oh, that’s a stupid question,” she went on. “You must want to see your grandmother, right?” Then she stopped, biting her lip, seeming to think it through. “I mean… I’m not sure if my parents would…”

Art’s stomach twisted. It was the other possibility, then. His grandma was somewhere in this house, in the same building that he was standing in, and he was going to be sent packing, sent to drive another sixteen hours back to Maine without even…

Maybe his heartbreak was written on his face and maybe Kaylee had inherited some empathetic tendencies from some relative other than her parents. Whatever it was, she was shaking her head and saying, “Well, you’re here now, and you can’t leave without seeing her, right? I think she’s in the kitchen.”

And then, without Art or Patrick having said a word – Kaylee was a born steamroller – she turned and began walking back there. Art followed her, and Patrick followed him.

Art’s grandmother was, indeed, in the kitchen. She was standing at the sink, facing away from them. Just seeing the back of her filled Art with a swell of emotions he didn’t know what to do with. That swell about quadrupled in size when she turned around and he saw her face again in person for the first time in six years, creating a rush of returning memories, things he hadn’t even known he’d lost.

She went perfectly still, staring at him for several seconds. Then she said, voice trembling, “Oh my goodness.” Then Art was moving forward, and he was sweeping her into an embrace. Jesus Christ, he’d thought he’d never get to do this again. How had he lived, thinking he’d never get to do this again? He was caught between wanting to squeeze her as tight as he could and wanting to treat her like glass because she felt so delicate in his arms. He tried to find something in the middle.

“Oh my goodness,” she said again, holding onto him. “Oh my goodness.”

After a long, long time, Art made himself pull back so that he could look at her again. “Hi, grandma,” he could barely say, eyes wet and throat clogged.

“Hello, my darling boy,” she answered, touching his face with her fingertips.

It occurred to Art that he should introduce her to Patrick, but when he turned around, both he and Kaylee were gone. They were apparently making themselves scarce to give the two of them some privacy, and he appreciated that thought immensely.

“How are you, my love?” his grandmother asked him. “Tell me everything.”

Art nodded a few times. Then he said, “Should we go up to the attic?”

“What’s the matter with right here?” his grandma answered hastily, and Art frowned. Basically every important conversation they’d ever had had taken place in the attic. It was too easy to hear what was said in the kitchen from the neighboring rooms. “Oh, you remember how hot and stuffy it gets up there at this time of year, don’t you?”

He did. He also remembered that she was completely used to that and hardly noticed it. His frown deepened, and he tilted his head. “What’s wrong?” Art said.

She sighed and threw up her hands. “Alright. My knees aren't what they used to be, and the stairs bother me a bit these days. Just spare me the trip, would you?”

“Of course,” Art said immediately. He took her hands and pulled her to the kitchen table, where they both sat. “Grandma, are you okay? You look…” Thin. She looked thin, smaller than he remembered. And maybe some of that was just the fact that he’d grown, but…

“Like an old lady?” she finished for him waspishly. “Well, I was one when you left, and I haven't gotten any younger while you were gone. I'm perfectly fine, dear, there's nothing to worry about. I'm old, and I'm slowing down a little, that's all. That's why they got Celia a few months back, did you meet her?”

“Yeah. Are they taking care of you?” Art wanted to know.

“They are, darling, I promise. Celia is a very nice girl, and she looks after me. And you saw Kaylee is home from college for the summer, and she tells me about five times a day to get off my feet and sit down. It's a little annoying if I'm being honest.”

Art smiled at that. His grandmother had more or less raised Kaylee, and they'd always been affectionate.

She continued. “Now, you haven't told me a thing, yet! Are you alright? How are they treating you?”

“I’m fine, grandma. Patrick, um, he’s my master, you saw him just now? He’s great, he’s everything you could have wanted for me, really.” Art carefully did not mention the Zweigs so he wouldn't have to lie to her.

“Oh, I'm so glad, my love.”

Art went on to tell her a bit about his life, only the good things, of course. She got a kick out of him attending a boarding school for tennis, as he’d known she would. He decided not to let her know just how close he had been to going to college, as the near-miss might’ve been as painful for her as it was for him. When he began explaining about the US Open, instead, she started smiling and nodding eagerly. He told her about winning Doubles with Patrick, uninterrupted, but when he got to the final of the Boys’ Singles, she broke in.

“Darling, I know! I saw!”

Art looked at her and shook his head, bewildered. “You… saw?”

“Kaylee still follows tennis, and she said she heard your name, and she told me when you were going to be on TV and… I saw!”

“That's– that’s amazing!” Art laughed and hugged her again. He felt his heart inflating like a balloon, like he might float away, he was so happy.

“I hope you know I couldn’t be any prouder of you,” his grandma insisted.

“You know I lost that match, right?” Art jibed her, and she smacked his arm exactly as he’d expected.

“Oh, hush,” she said. Then she started laughing. “Kaylee wasn't home at the time, and you should've seen poor Celia, shaking like a little leaf because we were putting on the TV by ourselves.”

Art shook his head again, still smiling. He couldn't remember his grandma ever having done that, but of course she had for the chance to see him.

They talked for another ten minutes or so about Patrick and Kaylee and Art’s school. Part of him wanted to tell her about Tashi, too, but he wasn’t exactly sure what to say. She didn’t know enough about tennis to appreciate that aspect of Tashi, and if she heard Art going all gooey over a free girl, she probably would have been more concerned about it than happy for him. His grandmother had warned him more than once when he was growing up to be careful about that kind of thing. Romance was always fraught for slaves, but falling for a free person, at least one who wasn’t your owner, that was asking for trouble.

Before he could make up his mind whether he wanted to raise the subject or not, they suddenly heard some commotion, a door slamming and raised voices from the front room. Seconds later, Mrs. Donaldson came bursting into the kitchen, still in her scrubs, Kaylee and Patrick just behind her. Art jumped to his feet, and when he saw his grandma was struggling to lever herself upright, he helped her up, too.

“Celia called to let me know what was going on, as well she should! What are you doing here?” Mrs. Donaldson demanded.

“Ma’am, please, my grandmother didn’t know I was coming. This is my fault, not hers,” Art said anxiously.

“I’m well aware of that,” Mrs. Donaldson scoffed. “You need to leave. Now.”

“I will. I am,” Art said, and then he turned back to his grandmother and brought her in for one more hug, tighter this time. “Love you, grandma.”

“I love you, too, my angel.” They squeezed each other’s hands as they parted, brushing the pads of their fingertips before they pulled away entirely, reluctant.

“Um,” Patrick said, speaking up for the first time that Art had heard since they entered the house. He handed the mysterious folder to Art’s grandma. “This is for you.”

“Go,” said Mrs. Donaldson tightly to them both. “Now.”

She marched the two of them to the front door, past the timid Celia in the living room, who avoided Art’s eye when he looked at her. He didn’t blame her for any of this, particularly. She was new and apparently terrified of getting into trouble, and Art had brought exactly that right to her, hadn’t he?

Mrs. Donaldson stood at the door with her arms crossed, watching Art and Patrick head down the driveway. Before they got to the end, however, another car was pulling up to the house. Fantastic, Art thought. Mr. Donaldson was joining their little party, too. He emerged from the car, blond hair grayer than Art remembered but otherwise looking just about the same.

“Art!” he said, voice a bit strained. “This is a surprise. It’s… certainly good to see you. But,” he licked his lips, eyes darting to Mrs. Donaldson’s scowling form in the doorway, “but I think it might be best if you didn’t come back here after this.”

Yes, sir, we were just leaving, Art was about to say politely, but Patrick beat him to the punch.

“He's your son, you piece of crap,” he said, a mild disgust visible on his face. Then he was walking away without another word.

Mr. Donaldson’s mouth fell open. There was no offense at all in his expression, just sheer amazement, as if he’d never thought of that before.

Art hesitated for a second, trying to figure out if he wanted to add anything else. But he decided that, really, Patrick had said it best, and he turned and followed him to the car.

Patrick took off as soon as Art closed the passenger side door. They drove in silence for a minute, Art looking out the window at the once-familiar scenery blurring by. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Patrick was giving him apprehensive little looks. Finally, he spoke:

“Art, I’m– I’m so fucking sorry. I really thought you’d have more time. I wouldn’t have dragged you all the way out here just for that if I’d known–”

“Could you pull over?” Art interrupted him.

“Um, yeah. Okay.” Patrick did so, looking even more disquieted, like he thought Art was about to fly into a rage.

“What was in the folder?” Art said, unbuckling his seat belt.

“Huh? Oh! Uh, it was just pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“Yeah, you know. Pictures of you, copies of whatever I had from the last few years. I figured your grandmother would want them,” Patrick said.

Art nodded. She certainly would.

“You don’t think they’d take those away from her, would they?” Patrick asked, brow furrowed. “That lady seemed pissed.”

Art considered it. “No, probably not,” he judged. “It sounded like she blamed me, not her.”

“Okay, well, that’s good, I guess,” Patrick said. “And um… I got your sister’s phone number. You know, while you were talking to your grandmother? I can give that to you later. Or I guess now, if you want it.”

Art nodded again. That was good, too.

“So…” Patrick said uneasily. “What’s up? Why’d you want to pull over?”

Art looked at him for a long moment. He reached out to unbuckle Patrick’s seat belt, as well. He grabbed Patrick’s left arm and maneuvered him a bit so that he was facing Art. Then Art wrapped his arms around Patrick’s shoulders, leaning over the center console and hugging him.

“Thank you,” Art said quietly, right into Patrick’s ear. After a second, Patrick’s arms came around him, too, hugging him back.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he answered.

And they stayed like that for a little while.

Chapter Text

Late Winter 2007

It wasn’t like Art didn’t know that he was jealous. He was perfectly aware of his feelings. It was just that all of Art’s feelings were stupid so he was trying to pretend they didn’t exist.

And mostly failing.

Being jealous about Tashi was moronic in the first place. It certainly made no sense to be jealous of the fact that Patrick had been introduced to Tashi’s parents, however briefly, while Art was left behind in their hotel room to simmer in unhappiness. That was perfectly reasonable, since Patrick bringing his slave along would have made things tense with Mr. Duncan. And regardless, it had been a disaster, hadn’t it? Because unfortunately Mr. Duncan had remembered Patrick (and Art along with him) from earlier, and unsurprisingly he had loathed the cocky young slave owner sniffing around his teenage daughter more or less on sight.

And now that Patrick and Tashi were dating long distance, didn’t Art see her almost as often as Patrick did? For God’s sake, didn’t Art have sex with her almost as often as Patrick did? Patrick had called it correctly when he said she wanted both of them: she asked for a threesome at least once every time Patrick and Art came to visit her, requests with which Patrick eagerly complied. Plus, Art did have his own relationship of sorts with Tashi, separate from Patrick. It was maybe not a romantic one, but still, they were friends. They texted most days about tennis and the tour and Patrick and Tashi’s classes and her life on campus. He had confided in her his disappointment that Patrick had not allowed him to go to college, and she had been a sympathetic ear– on his side in the matter, even.

On top of all of that, where the hell did Art get off, nursing some big dumb crush on a free girl? However gorgeous and talented and smart she was. What was he, new? His grandmother would have reminded him that there was no future there, and she would’ve been right. Tashi could never be his girlfriend, not really. So why should he begrudge that to Patrick?

Speaking of which, being jealous about Patrick was even crazier. Art was spending as much time as ever with his master, while Tashi was stuck with some phone calls and texts and a short visit every couple of months. In terms of sex, wasn’t Tashi making do most of the time with a voice over the phone while Art had the real thing, Patrick’s real mouth and his hands and his ass and his cock? So what if Patrick was unusually secretive about what went on with Tashi and him, unwilling to tell Art about the first time they had sex without him except via that stupid “signal?” And so what if Art was banished every now and then so she and Patrick could have privacy on their dates and calls? Patrick had gone on tons of dates when they were in school, been in lots of relationships, and Art had never resented any of his past girlfriends. If anything, Art had savored the rare chance for solitude when Patrick spent time with them, used to encourage Patrick to go fuck them so he could have a moment to himself.

And anyway, Patrick’s passion for his girlfriends waxed and waned. Wonderful as Tashi was, Patrick’s interest in her was probably temporary. Art would be with him forever.

Then, of course, there was the third thing, which was so toweringly idiotic that Art could hardly stand to think about it. Being jealous of them, of their relationship, of what they had… there was just no point. Playing house with a couple of girls at boarding school aside, Art was never going to be anybody’s real boyfriend, certainly not anyone’s husband. That wasn’t his place, never had been, never would be, and Art should have been able to accept that.

Undermining them was completely irrational and self-destructive. It’s not like Art would get to be with Tashi if he successfully sabotaged their relationship. No, if she and Patrick broke up, he might never see her again– or only in the future, in passing, at tournaments and such. If anything, if Art wanted to keep Tashi around, by all rights he should’ve been rooting for them, trying to make sure they got married and had two-point-five children or something.

Yet he couldn’t seem to stop.

Art did manage – just barely – to restrain himself from saying something shitty to Tashi. He drafted a hundred spiteful messages insinuating without quite saying that Patrick was cheating on her, that he wasn’t serious about her, that he was thinking about dumping her. But whether it was the time to think and edit that a text conversation had over a verbal one, the practical fact that Patrick could see all these messages on his own phone whenever he bothered to check, or just Art’s guilty conscience reminding him how disloyal this was to Patrick and how disrespectful it was to Tashi, Art pulled back each time and deleted these messages without sending them.

Patrick, however, was a different story. Everywhere they went, Art kept drawing Patrick’s attention to girls that he knew were his type. One morning, sitting next to each other on stools in a diner, after their waitress had smilingly set down their plates and left and after Art had invited Patrick to check out her ass as she went, Patrick finally called him out on it.

“What’s up with you? That’s like the millionth girl you’ve pointed out. I’ve never seen you this horny. As if you didn’t just come down my throat, like, an hour ago. Do I need to get you laid or something?” He shoved a huge piece of pancake into his mouth.

“I’m not– it’s not like that,” Art defended himself. “It’s just, the tour's been rough on both of us, and I know you’re used to more fun stuff than you’ve gotten to do, and I thought maybe you’d want to…” He gestured in the direction the waitress had gone.

“What do you mean? I’m taken. What do you think we’re doing right now?” Patrick demanded.

What they were doing was once more making the trek to Stanford, visiting Tashi and trying to catch her match against Pepperdine.

“You’re really committing to this thing?” Art asked, a bit of incredulity in his voice.

“To Tashi?” When Art nodded, Patrick continued, smiling. “Yeah. I mean, we’re taking it step by step, but, you know, I like her. I think she’s making me an honest man.”

“Huh,” Art said.

“What?”

“Nothing, I’m just... I’m not sure how she’s thinking about all of this. I don’t want you to get hurt,” Art said through a bite of scrambled eggs, hating himself even as he spoke the words.

Patrick huffed a laugh and repeated, “You don’t want me to get hurt?”

Art made a noise of agreement, feigning engrossment in his breakfast.

“Did she say something to you?” Patrick inquired.

“No.” No point in lying about that when all Patrick would have to do is look, and he’d see she hadn’t. “I just got the impression that she’s not really thinking about this as a serious relationship.”

“You got that impression?” Patrick was echoing him again. It was annoying.

“Yeah. Just generally,” Art said blandly.

Patrick considered him for a few seconds. Then he lunged toward Art, slinging an arm around his neck and beaming. “You poor bastard. You can’t even help yourself, can you?”

“I’m not–”

“What, are you in love with her or something?”

Art scowled at him. He wouldn’t have put it like that, but he wasn’t going to give Patrick the satisfaction of hearing him deny it, either.

Patrick’s grin faltered for a second, then it resettled on his face. “Honestly, I’m proud of you. It’s exciting to see you this way. It’s what’s been missing from your tennis.”

“What?” Art shoved him away. That one stung. The tour had been kicking both of their asses, but Art was getting the worst of it.

“It’s nice to see you lit up about something. Even if that something is my girlfriend.”

Art looked down at his food, feeling a bit ill.

“You know this just makes it hotter for me, right?” Patrick went on teasing him. “You sitting here… pining for her…”

Art glanced back up at him, and something in his expression must have clued Patrick into the fact that he had gone too far.

“Aw, hey, come on, I’m just kidding. Don't look at me like that.” He put an arm back around Art's shoulders and hugged him against his side. “I'll make sure you get plenty of time with her in the next couple days, if you want it so bad. Okay?”

Patrick picked up a strip of bacon from his plate and held it to Art's mouth, a peace offering. Art allowed a small smile to rise to his face, meeting Patrick’s eye as he leaned in to rip a chunk off with his teeth. Patrick smiled back.

***

Patrick and Tashi did still expect some amount of space, however, so when they got to the school, Art was left to wander around on his own in the time before Tashi’s match. He headed to the tennis courts to watch the men’s team practice. This was a nice little act of self-harm, and in two ways, as a matter of fact. For one thing, being on campus at all gave Art an ache in his chest, just seeing what he was missing, and this was most assuredly making it worse. For another, well, he could hardly believe it himself, but Art was basically sick of tennis, at the moment.

He had sort of known going into it that he wasn’t ready to play professionally yet, and Jesus Christ had he been proven right. It wasn't like Patrick was doing well, either – neither of them had won any challengers, at this point – but Art was getting annihilated by the real pros. Patrick hadn’t outwardly lost his patience yet with how much Art was sucking, but his little comment earlier made it clear it was on his mind, and Art was worried that it was only a matter of time.

For his part, Art was kind of frustrated with Patrick, too, because his choices weren’t helping anything. It was Patrick’s opinion that paying a coach right now would’ve been a waste, and maybe for Patrick that was true. After all, they weren’t exactly hauling in a lot of money, and in school Patrick had always relied more on raw talent than anything else, only paying attention to their coaches’ advice when he felt like it. Art, on the other hand, really could’ve used the structure, the guidance. Furthermore, Patrick was entering them to play both singles and doubles in tournaments, and that was getting fucking exhausting. Most people specialized, for good reason. But Patrick argued that they were young and energetic enough to swing it, and that they might as well increase their chances of winning something. It was true that “Fire and Ice” was more successful together than they were on their own (Art, in particular, had always played best with Patrick at his side), but it was also true that the prize money for doubles was shit compared to singles, and Art wasn’t sure it was worth it.

But the thing was, Art wasn’t in charge, and these weren’t his decisions to make. Patrick was, and they were his. So Art bit his tongue and tried to push down these feelings, as well. All of this pressure was building up on him, though, and Art was beginning to feel like he might explode soon. He didn’t actually know what that would look like. He had never truly lost his temper with Patrick.

There was one area where his displeasure had eased somewhat, however. Art still wished, badly, that he could be at school, at any school, but especially here with Tashi. Yet he had come to see Patrick’s side of things, too. The tour was full of long hours in the car or in airports and on planes, endless nights in hotel room after hotel room. Picturing a version of Patrick in his head doing this by himself for months at a time, bored and lonely, after they had spent six straight years living in each other’s pockets, made Art feel genuinely bereft, made him reach for the real Patrick and cling. The emotional was bad enough, but there was the physical, too: Patrick had always expressed his affections through touch and through sex, and the idea of him coming exclusively into his own hand every day with, at best, Tashi or Art’s voice in his ear, made Art's stomach hurt.

When it was coming up on time, Art walked over to the spot where Tashi would be playing. The bleachers were pretty crowded for a college match; Tashi was always a draw. But Art found two seats together and shot off a text to Patrick: Hey where are you? Match about to start.

The crowd cheered tepidly for the Stanford women’s tennis team, then much more enthusiastically for Tashi as she walked onto the court. When Art looked up from his phone, he saw that Tashi looked as beautiful as ever, hair slicked back in a perfect braid, but she also looked oddly unhappy as she stared up at him.

He got a response, and he pulled out his phone again. Patrick had sent, Had a big fight. Not coming.

Art wasn’t... precisely sure how he felt about that. Uneasy, for the most part. But he couldn’t deny the little slither of satisfaction, either. He clapped for Tashi when they called her name, the seat next to him now feeling conspicuously empty.

And, Jesus. Tashi was intense today. That in itself wasn’t exactly unusual: Tashi played every match like the fate of the universe depended upon it, and her opponent from Pepperdine, Foster, was scrambling to keep up. But there was something different this time, and Art could see it. Tashi wasn’t just driven to win, as she always was.

She was fucking pissed.

That satisfaction Art had been feeling? Immolated, and the unease was building and building as he watched her. Something was… something was…

And then it happened.

Tashi’s leg moved wrong. The instant Tashi shrieked, Art was on his feet along with half the crowd. He raced down the stairs when she hit the ground, gripping her knee and letting out awful whimpers of pain. Art ran across the court and jumped the net to crouch by her, hand over his mouth at the sight of her leg. Then he knelt behind her head, sliding his hands underneath her shoulders.

“Look at me, Tashi. Look at me, okay?” Art tried to keep his voice calm, soothing. Tashi’s gaze was glued to her injured leg. “Just breathe, just breathe, breathe.”

Looking down at her frightened, agonized face, Art could only wish he wasn’t so fucking useless.

***

In the sports therapy room, Art sat next to Tashi’s bed, trying to think of some comforting thing to offer her and discarding every insipid suggestion his brain spat out. What was there to say? Everything will be fine or some condescending bullshit like that? Yeah, and what if it wasn’t, dumbfuck? This was Tashi’s life, tennis was everything to her. If it was Art in that bed, it would’ve been devastating, but some part of him would’ve known it really would eventually be okay. Even if the worst happened, Art would adjust, and Patrick would find something else for him to do. A tiny, buried piece of him might even have been relieved. This, though…

Art would have traded places with her without a second thought. But he couldn’t.

After a while, when they were waiting for the ambulance, Patrick finally deigned to show his face. He jogged into view in the doorway, wearing a t-shirt Art didn’t recognize as either of theirs. I TOLD YA, it said in big, bold, mocking letters.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick began immediately.

“Out.”

“Listen, Tashi, Tashi–” he tried, but Tashi was starting to scream, something Art didn’t think he’d ever heard her do off of a tennis court.

“Get out! Out!”

“Tashi, Tashi, listen, please,” Patrick begged, louder now.

Tashi’s voice was getting frantic. “Out! Out! Out!” She kept saying it over and over, and Art couldn’t stand it anymore, her fear, her pain, her anger, all of it too much to bear.

“Patrick, get the fuck out!” Art yelled at the top of his lungs, and in front of him Tashi laid back down, letting him take over, drained. As if Art were protecting her. Ha. If only he could.

Patrick’s face was stunned, hurt. He looked at Art like he didn’t recognize him, then his eyes went to Tashi, who was staring straight ahead, into the middle distance. Dejected, Patrick finally turned and walked away.

A few seconds of silence. Then Tashi was darting Art a concerned, sidelong look.

“Is that… going to be okay?” she asked him, voice low and rough.

Art’s lips parted. He couldn’t believe she was sparing a thought for him right now. “It’ll be fine,” he assured her quietly, not knowing if he was telling the truth.

Most people would have said Patrick would be well within his rights to beat his slave bloody for raising his voice to him like that. Art could only imagine what Mr. Zweig would have done, and his imagination ended with Art in the emergency room, in a bed next to Tashi’s, back shredded from shoulders to knees. Patrick wouldn’t do that, obviously. He had never hurt Art, and Art couldn’t bring himself to believe that today would be the day– though, of course, if anything would cause Patrick to lose it and hit him, surely Art had just done it.

Tashi nodded. “Okay.” Then without looking at Art, she thrust out a hand to him. “Thanks.”

Art took her hand tenderly in his. He sat back down.

For another minute the two of them stared into space, Art rubbing little circles into the back of Tashi's hand with his thumb, before Tashi broke the silence once more.

“It was going to be in May.”

“What?” Art asked, leaning in a little closer so he could hear her.

“If we won the championships, then I was gonna go pro. In May,” Tashi said in a tiny voice.

Art nodded slowly. That was fucked. Even if Tashi’s injury wasn’t as bad as it looked, she’d have a long recovery ahead of her. She wouldn’t be going anywhere in May, nowhere except to physical therapy. He squeezed her hand and said, feeling inadequate, “I’m really sorry.”

Tashi squeezed back. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

Tashi didn’t let go of him when the ambulance arrived, and no one batted an eye at Art climbing into the back with her, probably all under the assumption that Art belonged to Tashi. On the way to the hospital, his phone chimed a couple of times. Patrick, of course. Part of Art wanted to look at the messages, assess the damage. But he saw the way Tashi’s eyes flicked over to him when she heard the sound, then back ahead of her, lips pressed together, and he couldn’t do it. Instead, digging his grave a little further, Art took his phone out of his pocket, and he turned it off entirely.

***

Hours later, after night had fallen, Art was back on campus. He’d been worried he’d have to give in and call Patrick for a ride, seeing as he didn’t have enough money for a cab on him, but he caught a member of Tashi’s Stanford medical team on her way out the door, and she agreed to drive him. In the car Art finally turned his phone back on and winced a little as he reviewed a number of missed calls and distraught messages from Patrick, attempts to reach him that had dropped off over an hour ago.

It was easy to find Patrick’s car in the parking lot. Even if Art had forgotten where they’d parked, he could have simply followed the sound of the blaring car horn. Patrick was in the driver’s seat, hunched over with his forehead pressed against the center of the steering wheel.

Art banged on the window, cutting the sound off abruptly as Patrick jumped. “Hey. Knock it off before someone calls the campus police,” he said mildly. Then he went around to the passenger’s side and climbed in. There were at least a dozen new cigarette butts in the ashtray. He waited for Patrick to speak, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry, so Art went first. “How long were you doing that?”

“Oh, not long. Couple of hours, tops,” Patrick joked weakly. At least, Art hoped he was joking. After a beat, Patrick finally asked the question. “How is she?”

Art hesitated. He’d tried to rehearse how to answer this, but he hadn’t come up with anything satisfactory. “They scheduled her for surgery, and her family’s gonna be there soon. That’s why she told me to go.”

Patrick looked at him. “How is she, though?”

“Not… not great,” Art admitted. “It’s been… pretty much just bad news, so far, and she’s, you know. Upset.”

Patrick nodded. “Yeah.” He put his hands on the steering wheel and didn’t say anything else. Art took a deep breath and released it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

“Guess not. I should probably punish you for that, right?” Patrick replied. He sounded so despondent that Art couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. Art cast his mind back, searching for the last time Patrick had punished him for anything. Two years ago, maybe? Something like that? He couldn’t recall.

“Probably,” Art agreed. “Do you want me to streak through the parking lot?”

It was an old memory he was invoking, the time when they were thirteen or so and Patrick made him run naked through the halls of Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy at about two in the morning. It was something Patrick had laughed about for years afterward. Art hadn’t thought of it in a long time.

It didn’t lighten the mood as he’d intended. Patrick’s mouth didn’t even twitch. Instead he lowered his eyes and gripped the steering wheel hard. Sounding like he was trying to match Art’s easy tone but in a voice that was strange and breathy, he said, “If you do that, then someone’s definitely gonna call the cops.”

Then Patrick fucking burst into tears.

Art started panicking immediately. Seeing Tashi cry had been distressing, God, deeply so, but this was different. Art himself had wept all over Patrick a thousand times, homesick for his grandmother or depressed or fresh off a visit to the study, but he could count the number of times he’d seen Patrick cry of anything other than laughter on one hand with fingers to spare. Even then, there had always been physical pain involved. This was entirely new.

Art babbled, “Oh fuck, Patrick, please don’t… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… Tashi’ll be okay…!”

Every word he was saying seemed to be making things worse, and Patrick was crying even harder now. Art finally shut the fuck up and held him, feeling desperate to help and utterly unable to do so, just as he had with Tashi.

A few horrible minutes passed before Patrick eventually calmed himself, the shuddering of his body easing in Art’s arms.

He pushed Art away gently, sniffling. “I think we should get out of here,” he said.

“You want to go to the hotel? I can drive,” Art said anxiously.

Patrick shook his head, fumbling for the keys and sticking them in the ignition. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Art said. Yep. Patrick seemed perfectly fine.

“I meant in the morning, though,” Patrick went on hoarsely. “We should get going. Get to Phoenix a little early.”

“You, you don’t want to hang around tomorrow? See if…”

Patrick sniffed again and gave Art a tight smile. “You think she’s gonna want to see me tomorrow? Day after, maybe?”

Art looked away. Fair point.

“And I’m gonna withdraw us from doubles. We’re just gonna play singles, from now on,” Patrick added.

“Oh. Um, what changed your mind?” Art asked tentatively.

“That’s kind of what we fought about, me and Tashi,” Patrick said.

Art frowned. Tashi wasn't known for keeping her opinions quiet, not on the subject of tennis, at least. She had made the argument more than once that he and Patrick should stick to singles, that they weren’t conserving their energy for when they needed it. Patrick had always just waved it off. It seemed like a weird thing for them to get into a big fight over now. “Why, what did she say?”

“She said that you might be a great tennis player one day if I ever let you out from my shadow.” Patrick’s voice sounded a little bitter. Then it became a lot bitter. “The Duncanator also told me that I don’t know how to take a shit without you wiping my ass.”

And Art wasn’t there, he hadn’t heard the context, so he couldn’t know for sure. But it definitely sounded to him like this fight wasn’t really about playing doubles. The words hung in the air between them for several long seconds.

“That’s not true,” Art said finally. Patrick gave him the same tight, humorless smile again.

“Let’s find out,” he said.

Chapter Text

Spring 2010

True, Art had been wondering for months when there would be some kind of fight about this, but when things finally came to a head, it went down differently than he’d expected.

You see, sometime around last spring, Art had drawn about even with Patrick in the rankings for the first time in their lives, pro tennis or juniors. And sometime around last summer, he had surpassed him and stayed there, comfortably ahead of Patrick ever since. Well, “comfortably” might not have been the word.

It wasn’t like Patrick had thrown a tantrum and started making Art’s life miserable or anything like that. Actually, he was being unusually opaque about the whole thing. He claimed he was proud of Art, and maybe he was. After all, being Art’s master, Art’s successes were Patrick’s successes in a rather literal way: the checks for his winnings were written out to Patrick, obviously, but also Art’s rank and wins were always annotated with his name, Owner: Patrick Zweig. On the rare occasion that Art was interviewed, by a local paper after winning a challenger or something, the reporter was just as interested in getting Patrick’s take as they were Art’s. But Art had also caught sight of Patrick on his phone more than once, staring at the ATP rankings or calculating point totals with a moody expression. He’d been indisputably a better player than Art for almost nine years, and Art was sure it had to be hard on him, watching Art slowly advancing while Patrick… well, he mostly…

It pained Art to think it, but Patrick’s game was kind of stagnating, if he was being honest.

It would help if Patrick actually bothered to pay attention to their coach, Art thought for the thousandth time, exasperated. He had improved Art’s game immensely, but Patrick was not the most receptive pupil– Karl had given up entirely on getting Patrick to serve like a normal human, for example. And though Patrick had never been lazy, practicing hard and staying in excellent shape, it was also true that he was not as stringent in either his training regimen or his diet as Art was.

Then there was the other thing, the input of Art’s unofficial “assistant coach,” which of course Patrick was missing out on. Art followed Tashi’s advice religiously, even when it contradicted his real coach’s (and despite her insistence that Art should listen to Karl, it often did). When Patrick and Tashi had been dating, Tashi had held off on fixing Art’s game directly, choosing to filter most of her suggestions through his master. Now, naturally, Tashi showed Patrick no such deference.

But regardless of the reason, these days Art was a better tennis player than Patrick… officially, at least.

It was after a practice match between the two of them one evening that things went awry. Patrick took the match point, as usual, but after winning he flung his racket down on the ground, looking pissed, as if he’d just suffered some humiliating defeat. Art frowned, watching him.

He wasn’t left wondering what the hell that was about for long, though. Patrick picked up his racket again and stalked right over to him with a dark look on his face. He thrust the racket out in Art’s direction, tapping him on the chest with it.

“You’re a good tennis player,” Patrick gritted out in the same way he might’ve told Art, You’re a fucking asshole.

“Thank you…?” Art said, baffled.

“You’re better than me,” Patrick continued. “You’re ranked higher than me, right?”

This time Art didn’t respond.

“So why don’t you beat me?” Patrick wanted to know. “When you and I play, one on one, why don’t you win?”

Art opened his mouth to answer, and then stayed like that for a couple seconds, agape. He didn’t know what to say.

Patrick’s brow knitted, face intense. In a low voice, he said, “Have you been fucking letting me win?”

Art’s brain started again. “What? No!” he sputtered, taken by surprise.

Then he stumbled back when Patrick put a hand on his chest and gave him a little shove. “Have you?” he demanded.

“Hey, I said no,” Art snapped back. “Jesus, Patrick.”

“Fine. Then why?” Patrick challenged him.

“I don’t– I don’t fucking know, okay?” Art replied.

Patrick nodded a few times, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Then he turned and walked away, leaving Art staring after him, racket dangling loosely from his fingertips.

That was crazy. Letting him win. Art would never do that, not to anyone– tennis might not have been sacred to him like it was to Tashi, but it was still at the center of his life. And to Patrick, especially, that would have been a complete slap in the face. He’d never insult him like that. Art wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

Right?

***

Back in their hotel room, Art drifted around in Patrick’s vicinity, silent and anxious. Eventually, cautiously, he reached out and put his hands on him, drawing him into a kiss. Patrick was a little stiff, but he didn’t reject it. They made out for a minute or two before he spoke.

“What do you want to do right now?” Patrick murmured against Art’s mouth.

Art hesitated and then pulled back a bit. “Would you want to… try again?” And Patrick knew what he meant.

More because of Patrick’s fears than Art’s, it had taken a very long time for them to make a second attempt at anal with Patrick topping after their catastrophic first go. In the intervening years, however, they’d tried several times. Although Art’s horrific breakdown had not recurred, these occasions had not been resounding successes, either. When Art didn’t panic and put a halt to things himself, there would be something else: his limbs would start trembling or his eyes would fill up with tears, and Patrick would put the kibosh on it. In fact, Patrick might have been happier shelving this particular act permanently, so spooked was he by that incident in their senior year, but Art didn’t know how he felt about that. He didn’t like the idea that Mr. Zweig had, in a single night, made this off-limits to him forever.

Art felt a little bad. The suggestion was an obvious ploy to soften Patrick up, and Patrick probably knew it, too. Still, it seemed to be working.

Patrick sighed. “Maybe not… maybe not tonight, okay?” he said. But he pulled Art more firmly against him, knocking their heads together gently, and some of the rigidity went out of his muscles.

Instead the night ended with Patrick on the bed, heels digging into Art’s back while Art rimmed him. He held Patrick's balls out of the way, massaging them but not letting Patrick touch his own cock at all. Over time Patrick moved on from begging Art and swearing at him to promising death by various unlikely weapons (bazooka, garrote, blunderbuss, “sharks with frickin’ laser beams attached to their heads”). When Patrick threatened to murder him by dropping a piano on him like an old-timey cartoon, Art started giggling too hard to continue, and he gave in and rewarded the imagery by jerking Patrick to a copious completion.

Lying together afterwards, Patrick returned to the subject of their earlier argument.

“But really,” he said to Art with an uncomfortable not-quite-smile on his face. “You’re not, like… afraid of me or something, right?”

“You and your bazooka? Petrified,” Art answered, amused, but Patrick shook his head.

“I’m serious.” So Art gave it a moment of thought.

“No, I’m not afraid of you,” he said, and he meant it, though he also felt an odd twinge in his belly as he spoke the words. Agitated, Art dragged his hand down the line of hair at the center of Patrick's abdomen, petting from his pecs to his groin, trying to soothe them both. “I don't know what it is. But I'm not doing anything. Not on purpose.”

“Okay. Sorry I was a dick,” Patrick said, rubbing his palm against Art's back and closing the space between their faces for a kiss.

Art heaved a long-suffering sigh. “That's alright. I'm used to it.” Patrick laughed and moved his hand down further to give Art’s ass a light smack.

Quarrel defused with sex and with humor, as they so often were between the two of them, Art shut off the lights. He settled back into bed with his head on Patrick's chest to hear the lub, lub, lub of his heartbeat, and he turned his mind back to the matter. If he was scared of Patrick, it was only some small part of him he couldn't really explain. But how Art felt about Patrick as a whole, how he really felt deep down, that was a door he usually tried not to open, like it led to a closet so packed with objects that he knew they’d all start toppling down on him the moment he took a peek.

Art found himself up for hours after Patrick had fallen asleep, thinking and listening to someone's heart, at least, if not his own.

***

Tashi Duncan was… kind of a fucking dork, now that Art knew her better.

Art grinned, reading her text. From the driver’s seat, Patrick glanced over.

“Is that Tashi? What did she say?”

Art gave him a wry look. “You’ll find out the next time you look at your phone. Or are we pretending you don’t read my and Tashi’s texts, like, daily?”

“Yeah, alright,” Patrick grumbled, and Art shook his head.

What Tashi had said was this: Good luck in NJ. Send me a postcard from Hell on Earth! And then she had sent a picture of what Art vaguely thought might’ve been a tarot card? The one with the guy lying facedown on the ground with a bunch of swords sticking out of his back.

That was Tashi’s sense of humor, a little goofy and a little dark. Earlier that month, three years since her injury to the day, Art had texted her first thing in the morning since he knew this time of year was always hard for her: Hey, how are you holding up so far?

Tashi had texted back, Happy anniversary, babe, with a little heart, followed by the final panel of the “Loss” comic, which showed a distraught guy standing over a woman crying in a hospital bed.

Silly as it might have been, Art was proud of her. Last year Tashi wouldn’t have been able to make any kind of joke about this, no matter how bleak, and on the first anniversary they had shared a rare and heartbreaking phone call in which she was audibly holding back tears. From what Art could tell, though, nowadays Tashi was doing really well. And not that Tashi had ever been friendless or anything, but Art got the sense that she showed the stiff upper lip to most people. Yet they were close, and she was pretty candid with Art, which was an honor, if sometimes a painful one. She must have known Patrick was reading their texts– it was common knowledge that a slave’s owner had access to that kind of thing, and she wasn’t so naive as to think that he wouldn’t look. She didn’t seem to care too much, however, happy to ignore Patrick Zweig's existence in general when she could.

What her text today was referring to was part of the reason Patrick had been in such a foul mood yesterday. Patrick and Art were headed to Art’s least favorite place on the face of the planet, Patrick’s childhood home in New Jersey. Art would have been delighted to just never go there again, and Patrick himself probably would’ve liked to make the journey no more than once or twice in a decade. But this time they didn’t have a choice.

When Patrick had failed to come home for Thanksgiving last year for the second year in a row, the Zweigs had lost it on him. His mother had nearly cried on the phone, which was not at all like her, and his father had been quietly furious, calling Patrick ungrateful and a litany of other things, too. A call in February had made it clear that if Patrick did not show up for Passover seder the following month, he was done, finished, cut off completely.

Difficult though he was to shame, Patrick wasn’t exactly proud of the fact that he received what was essentially an allowance from his parents. Still, they sort of relied on it to be comfortable. There were fat and lean times, as far as their earnings from tournaments went, and the Zweigs’ money meant that they could reliably pay Karl and afford plane tickets and that they didn’t have to stay in the cheapest shitty motels they could find. It made a big difference.

Visiting Patrick’s parents was unavoidable, but Art did wish they’d been allowed to wait until the summer to make the trip. The house in Maine had become a home of sorts to him over the years, and it had a lot of positive memories attached to it to balance out the negative. In addition, the slaves who worked there were nearly like family to Art, and he liked seeing them in the warm atmosphere of the kitchen. Max and Nadine, in particular, were basically the closest thing Art had to parents. Seeing Angelica, when Marissa was also visiting, that was a bit more complicated emotionally, but ultimately it was a good thing, too.

The house in New Jersey was different. To begin with, it was enormous, a goddamn fortress that made the luxurious vacation home look cozy. Art had only ever spent a week or two at a time there, when he and Patrick came home during the school year for holidays and vacations, so he'd never gotten used to the place and sometimes still got turned around without Patrick guiding him. It was also full of slaves whom he’d never gotten to know well, whose names he sometimes couldn’t remember, all scurrying around trying to be discreetly invisible from the Zweigs. They were polite enough, as a rule, but most of them hadn't bothered to learn about Art, either, since he was only there for such short periods. Some of them seemed to outright distrust him, tainted by his association with Patrick, like Art was going to tattle on them for some imagined misdeed.

“I really fucking wish we didn’t have to do this,” Art commented aloud to Patrick.

“Yeah, man, I know,” Patrick sighed. “But I talked them down to one night, didn’t I? We do dinner, we do breakfast, we get the fuck out. Sixteen hours, tops, and we’re unconscious for half of it.”

“Unconscious is good. I guess I can handle sixteen hours,” Art conceded.

And in the end, of course, he wouldn’t even need to.

***

Almost ten years in, Art now knew enough to feel relieved that the Zweigs were Reform, because from what he understood, Passover dinner among the more conservative sects could last hours and hours, full of prayers and songs and several rounds of wine. That wasn’t to say he didn’t find the whole elaborate ritual kind of fascinating – if nothing else, the Exodus story was always of special interest to slaves, for obvious reasons – but standing against the wall behind Patrick and doing nothing did sort of lose its charms after two hours or so. By the time they were done, Art was very ready to be able to move around and stretch a bit, maybe retreat to Patrick’s bedroom soon if they were lucky.

They weren’t. This sensation of near-escape only added to Art’s misery when, horribly but perhaps inevitably, Mr. Zweig asked Patrick to come speak to him in his office. Across the room, Angelica gave Art a bolstering look and a short nod (You got this), and Art tried to take courage from it as he followed Patrick into the most hateful room of this most hateful house. He hadn’t been in there in years.

Art hadn’t been disciplined often in this house, but the punishments he did receive tended to be some of the worst, for two reasons. For one thing, they were always in response to incidents that took place at school, meaning weeks or months of anticipation leading up to them. For another, the short duration of Art’s stays in the house typically meant traveling back to school while still in pain, sitting for hours on his bruised ass with Patrick giving him pitying looks, unable to do much more for Art than rub his back and provide fresh painkillers every now and then.

Once in the office, he and Patrick sat down in the armchairs on the side of the room. Technically, Art supposed he should have stood in the corner like Max was doing now, but the behavior was ingrained and automatic after so long, and Mr. Zweig didn’t object. He himself rolled his office chair out from behind the desk and then sat across from Patrick.

Art did his best to take deep breaths and calm his racing heart, trying to remind his body that he belonged to Patrick and had for a long while, that it would be illegal for Mr. Zweig to hit him or anything else without permission that Patrick would've never in a million years granted. Though Mr. Zweig was not a kind person, he was generally a law-abiding one, and he hadn’t laid a finger on Art in the time since Patrick had turned eighteen.

Art’s body, in response, helpfully informed him that he was about to have his ass beaten black and blue, and the thing to do was to freak out.

“Patrick, your mother and I worry about you, and we’d like you to come home more often,” Mr. Zweig began.

“Dad, you know what I do. I’m sorry about Thanksgiving, okay? But I’m traveling all the time, and sometimes I’m not going to be able to swing it. And there’s nothing to worry about, I’m fine.”

“I am aware of what you do,” Mr. Zweig said. “I’m also aware that you’ve been doing it for four years without much success and that your mom and I are still supporting you financially. And we don’t begrudge you that!” He held up a forestalling hand. “You’re young, and if you need a little help, well, that’s what family is for. But I’m asking you to consider prioritizing your family a little more highly. If you won’t visit for your mom’s sake, I wish you’d visit for your own. It’s not good for you, being out on the road all the time, alone like that.”

“I’m not alone. I have Art,” Patrick pointed out.

Mr. Zweig gave Art a bemused look. “And we’re glad that you do. But no matter how… attached you might be, a slave is not a replacement for your family.”

“I’m not trying to replace you!” Patrick protested. “I’m just saying I’m not alone. I have company, and like I said, there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

Mr. Zweig sighed and rubbed his jaw. “I’m beginning to think I might have made a mistake, supporting you in this whole tennis thing, sending you to that school. I wanted you to be able to pursue your talents, and God knows you didn’t show any interest in your studies–”

“It’s not a mistake.” Patrick sounded like he was struggling to keep calm. “Tennis is important to me, and I’m good at it. This is what I need to be doing.”

“But you’re not building anything, Patrick. If you’d gone to college like your sister, you’d be getting your degree in a couple of months. What is it that you have to show for the last four years? What is it that you have that we didn’t give you?”

“Look, I’m busting my ass out there,” Patrick said hotly. “I am building something. It just takes time, okay?”

“I’m not sure you even know what that looks like,” Mr. Zweig retorted. “As I said, we gave you everything–”

“No one’s saying you didn’t buy me enough stuff,” Patrick sneered.

“I’d watch my tone if I were you!” his father snapped.

There was a moment of silence, tension thick in the air. Art was perfectly still, heart beating rabbit-fast. These two didn’t normally fight like this. Though neither one of them was drunk, there had been plenty of wine at dinner, and Art didn’t think that was helping right now. He prayed Patrick would back down, apologize, do whatever they needed to in order to get out of this room and up to Patrick’s, where Art would watch him pace and rant about what a bastard his father was all night if that’s what Patrick wanted.

Instead, Mr. Zweig spoke. “I don’t see you turning up your nose at our money every month. You’re not too good for the car you ride around in or that pretty slave you’re so obsessed with. I’m disappointed in you, Patrick, I really am. I thought you understood how important your family was. I thought you had your priorities straight by your sixteenth birthday.”

Art’s heart stopped.

Patrick shook his head, angry but now also lost. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I was expecting you to come swooping in half-cocked and pitch a fit. I was impressed when you didn’t. I thought maybe you’d learned something about what’s important, what actually matters.”

“I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about,” Patrick reiterated.

Mr. Zweig looked back and forth between Patrick and Art. His eyes settled on Art. “Oh, I see. You didn’t learn your lesson, either. Still keeping secrets from your master. I suppose I should’ve beaten you harder, hmm? Should have done everything harder, maybe.”

Art dropped his gaze, sick and unable to look at him anymore. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Patrick had started shaking. He knew.

“Tell me,” Patrick bit out, “what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“I fucked him,” Mr. Zweig said simply. “He was of age, and he was mine. So I fucked him.”

Patrick didn’t say anything. After a moment, he was pushing himself up to his feet, and Art copied him, hoping against hope that this was over and they were leaving.

Patrick turned to Art, and oh. Art had never seen that look on him. It belonged somewhere else, on his dad’s face, screaming at Art, Who the fuck do you think you are? Patrick had never so closely resembled his father, to Art's eye.

“Sit,” Patrick told Art with menace.

Art sat.

It startled him when Max spoke. He’d been so silent and unmoving the whole time that Art forgot he was in the room. He was approaching the three of them slowly, hands up in a futile calming gesture. “Mr. Patrick, please. Take a breath. Don’t do anything you’re going to–”

Obviously Max was expecting what Mr. Zweig was not. But Patrick was faster.

His fist impacted his father’s nose with a crunch, and blood started to pour down Mr. Zweig’s face. He was knocked out of his chair and onto the ground, and Patrick was on top of him. Patrick got in a couple more blows before Max arrived and began trying to wrestle him off.

Art was frozen in his chair. He couldn’t wade in, and he knew it, and it wasn’t because of Patrick’s order, either. Patrick would have never called the cops on Max, never, but Mr. Zweig would’ve liked nothing more than to report to the police that Art had assaulted him, would probably do it if Art so much as brushed past him right now. Art watched Patrick and Max grapple while Mr. Zweig howled and clutched at his face. He felt oddly distant from it, like he was watching this happen on TV instead of inches away from him. He grimaced, though, when Patrick’s flailing fist slammed into the wooden floor, producing an ugly crack.

Finally, Max had the upper hand. He was behind Patrick with his arms around him, dragging him away from his dad and toward the door. Art rose to his feet and followed.

“I’ll kill you,” Patrick told his father, ragged. “I should fucking kill you.”

“Get the fuck out of my house,” Mr. Zweig answered, voice sounding wrong through his bloodied nose.

Art moved to stand in front of Patrick. Patrick snarled a bit, but Art ignored that and put a hand on his cheek. “Baby,” he said. He had never called Patrick that before, to his knowledge. “We have to go now. We have to go now.”

Slowly, Patrick stopped struggling with Max, the fight leaving him as he stared back at Art. Once he was still, Art gave Max a nod, and Max released Patrick cautiously, standing between him and Mr. Zweig.

Patrick gave his dad one last look, then turned to Art. He nodded. “Let’s fucking go, then,” he said roughly.

They ducked out of the room together.

***

In the driveway, overnight bags over their shoulders, Art looked at Patrick and held his hand out. “Give me the keys.”

“Just get in the car,” Patrick said.

“Don’t be stupid. You’ve been drinking and you’re upset and your hand…” Art gestured to the way Patrick was holding his right hand awkwardly against his chest.

“Just get in the fucking car, Art,” Patrick said.

So Art got in the fucking car.

Patrick was driving one-handed and looking grim, but at least he wasn’t speeding, hadn’t knocked over the mailbox backing down the driveway or anything like that. Small favors, Art thought.

They were a few streets away when Patrick spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why the hell wouldn’t you tell me?”

Art tried to gather his thoughts. Apparently he didn’t do it fast enough.

Patrick smacked the steering wheel with his left hand. “Art. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me my dad raped you?”

Art winced a little at that. “Patrick, you know it’s not… he was my owner, it wasn’t…"

“Yeah?” Patrick demanded. “It wasn’t rape? You wanted it?”

Art cringed harder, and Patrick’s face took on a regretful cast.

“Fuck,” he said. He shook his head, frustrated, anguished. “I’m not trying to– just– why wouldn’t you tell me that?” His voice sounded pleading now.

“What would you have done?” Art asked him. Patrick glanced at him sideways, wordless. “Yeah, that’s right. You would have fucking decked him. Or, hell, if I told you when we were at school, you would’ve called him up on the spot, cursing him out, threatening him. And what would he have done, either way? He would’ve turned around and sold me, first chance he got. Probably to a fucking brothel, just to really stick it to you. And you know it.”

Patrick was quiet for a moment. “Fine,” he said eventually. “Fine, you couldn’t tell me right then and there. But what about the last four fucking years? Four years, and I’ve been taking money from him, I’ve been fucking taking you back there to see him. What the fuck, Art?”

“You think this is easy for me, talking about this? You think it’s fun? I spent two goddamn years trying to move on with my life, and then what, I was supposed to be excited to dredge all this shit back up? And why, to blow up your family, make your parents cut you off, make everything fucking worse?”

“How the hell am I supposed to trust you now?” Patrick said. “If you’re just keeping massive shit from me? He’s my dad, Art, I’ve been saying I love you to that guy, you’ve been fucking letting me!”

“I’m so sorry, Patrick,” Art replied, voice vicious with sarcasm. “That must be so hard for you. I should’ve thought of that, lying all night in underwear stained with my own ass blood and your dad’s jizz, since I couldn’t fucking get changed without you noticing, and I couldn’t fucking trust you to hold your goddamn temper. When I spent two fucking years alone with this because I knew you couldn’t handle yourself, I really should have thought about what that would do to you.”

Patrick had put his blinker on and was pulling over now. At the side of the road, he unbuckled his seat belt and turned to Art, looking wild-eyed. Art jutted his chin out, face obstinate. If Patrick wanted to hit him, perfect. That would cap off the night beautifully.

“You’re right,” Patrick said. “You’re right. And I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry.” He put out his good hand to touch Art, then dropped it when Art flinched away from him. “I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what else there is. This is fucked, and it never should have happened to you, and I’m sorry.”

Art’s jaw worked for a couple of seconds. He sort of wished Patrick had just slapped him instead. Because he didn’t want to cry right now, and he was definitely, definitely going to. And yup, fuck it, here it came.

Patrick let out an unhappy, sympathetic moan as Art’s body started to quake with sobs. He reached out a second time, now more cautiously, and now Art let him, let him pull Art in against his body, right hand held carefully out of the way.

Art didn’t know how much time passed like that, quiet but for the sounds Art was making, weeping into Patrick’s shoulder. But before too long the worst of it had passed, and Art sat up, sniffling and wiping at his face. “Fuck,” he said.

“Better?” Patrick asked, and Art nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright.”

“Good. Because… and I mean, take your time and all. But, uh, I am going to need you to drive me to the hospital? Because I’m pretty sure my fucking hand is broken.”

Art laughed a little hysterically, and Patrick gave him a helpless, slightly crazed grin in return.

“Happy Passover, Patrick,” Art said, voice thick with tears and trembling with mad laughter.

“Chag sameach, baby,” Patrick agreed, kissing him on the forehead.

Chapter Text

It was an unfortunate confluence of factors that made the months following Patrick punching his dad… rocky, to say the least.

The doctor that examined Patrick’s hand in the ER in New Jersey looked ready to graduate junior high any day now. He called it a “boxer’s fracture,” a break in the metacarpal bone by the knuckle of Patrick’s pinky finger. He said that if it were a simple fracture, it would be just a matter of splinting it, possibly for only a few weeks, and then Patrick could slowly return to his normal level of activity over the course of a few weeks after that. That was encouraging.

Except it was not a simple fracture, it turned out. The X-rays showed that the bone had moved out of alignment, and Patrick needed surgery to fix it. He had health insurance, but nonetheless, the sight of the bill still made Art wince. Additionally, once Patrick’s injury was nearly healed, the doctor in California recommended physical therapy to prevent issues with grip strength, since that was pretty goddamn important for a tennis player. Patrick hadn’t even disclosed to him how much that had cost, and Art was too afraid to ask. All in all, Patrick was out of commission for more like double the original estimate, closer to three months.

Any one of the financial issues – being cut off abruptly by the Zweigs, the medical expenses, losing months of Patrick’s income – the two of them might have weathered okay. All three at once, though, that was tougher.

Trading in the Lexus for a Honda covered the hospital and PT bills, thankfully. And it wasn’t like Patrick had zero savings, either. It was just that all of a sudden, Patrick and Art were living on very thin margins. To make matters more complicated, they were forced to do some speculative math on Art’s earnings, too. They could no longer afford to risk flying to another continent only for Art to get killed within the first few rounds. It would’ve made things easier if there was only one plane ticket to account for, but a slave couldn’t travel internationally alone. If Art had gotten hurt, Patrick could’ve parked him somewhere and left him behind in the States for a while. The reverse just wasn’t possible.

The two of them started cutting back on expenses. They’d never lived luxuriously, but they were newly aware of every penny they spent. Patrick let go of Karl, the hotels became motels, and, without discussing it, Patrick and Art began eating more cheaply, too. Still, they spent those three months leaking money like air out of a balloon. At least, Art was pretty sure they did. Patrick had historically been quite open when it came to money stuff, but over the course of that spring he got rather tight-lipped with Art, telling him he didn’t want him to worry.

This was not a successful strategy, and in fact, Art was more stressed out than he had ever been in his entire life. The pressure of supporting himself and his owner on his earnings alone weighed heavily on him, and being kept in the dark about their financial situation only made things worse. Plus, it’s not like he hadn’t already been trying his best, doing everything he could to win. He was beating his brain for what more he could do, but there was nothing, and he felt helpless. He tried not to show this stress to Patrick, though, since Patrick was already treating Art like he was made of porcelain these days.

When it finally happened, in Illinois, in June, it wasn’t because they were completely dead broke or anything. It was because of the fucking dentists.

The good news of the day was that upon arrival, Art had promptly demolished his round one opponent, no chance for the poor bastard, total shutout. Riding high on that victory, Patrick and Art remained in good spirits as they went around to the town’s handful of hotels and motels and came back with the same answer from each: no vacancies.

In addition to the tournament they were in town for, there was apparently also a convention going on in the town next over. Dentists. Dentists who had arrived in this quiet municipality in far greater numbers than the tennis players had, that was for fucking sure. What was at first merely annoying became nerve-wracking as Art spent the rest of the afternoon on his phone, searching for hotels in neighboring towns and making calls while Patrick drove to still others to ask in person. Same result.

It was evening and they’d already stopped for dinner by the time they finally found a place that did have a vacancy, an outpost of a very mid-range three-star hotel chain. The problem was that the price had been jacked up to about three times the normal rate.

Patrick and Art drew a few feet away from the front desk to confer. They could swing it, but what about tomorrow night or the next? These were significant bites that their meager cushion couldn’t really spare. Would it be a big deal to crash in the car for a few nights? It wouldn’t be comfortable, but it would be free. And they could really use the cash.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t believe you’re having money troubles!” an admiring voice broke in on their conversation. They turned to see the woman behind the reception desk (dark hair, maybe forty, bedecked with a lot of silver jewelry) addressing Patrick. “Pretty slave like that, all you’d have to do is rent him out for an hour or two, and you’d be all set.”

A beat as that sentence sank in.

“Right,” Patrick said flatly. He grabbed Art by the elbow and steered him out of the lobby and towards the car, starting to look steamed. Art felt a wave of anxiety despite the knowledge that Patrick wasn’t angry with him and probably wasn’t even too angry with that specific woman, either. Because this was not the first time it had come up.

Hell, this wasn’t even the fifth time it had come up.

There was nothing illegal about renting a slave for sex work, and they’d both heard comments like that before– and not just hypotheticals, either. Art was well-aware that he was attractive in a way that people would pay for. They had laughed about it, even, the outrageous things people would say to Patrick, the occasionally eye-popping sums they’d offer him.

Art was having a hard time remembering what was so funny about that, right now.

Perhaps it wasn’t a big deal, camping out in the car. But would this be a big deal, either? It wouldn’t be fun, but what was an hour or two of discomfort? An hour or two of his life so that his master could sleep in a bed. Art had been hunting for what else he could do for Patrick for three months now, and this was the first viable answer he’d had. There were all kinds of services and websites devoted to this, so it wouldn’t be hard.

When they got back into the car, Art attempted to broach the subject.

“Maybe–” he began.

“No,” Patrick said.

“But–”

“Art, I’m not fucking kidding.” Patrick glared at him. “It’s not going to happen so drop it.”

Art felt frustration welling up inside of him. He should have known this conversation would be a nonstarter with Patrick. Perhaps it always would’ve been, but ever since Patrick had found out about his father, he’d been treating Art like he was so fucking fragile, especially where sex was concerned. Maybe it was Art’s own fault for crying about it yet again that night, but for the most part, Art was doing fine. That event had been six years ago now. He didn’t need Patrick constantly “checking in” on him: was he okay, was he sure he wanted to have sex, blah blah blah. If Patrick would just goddamn listen to him for once…

He stayed silent while Patrick pulled out of the hotel parking lot and while they drove back to the town where the tournament was taking place. Patrick headed to a public park they had passed earlier, where they could hopefully spend the night without being hassled.

It seemed Patrick could see that Art had been sulking on the ride over; despite his instruction, Patrick was the one to reopen the topic.

“You’ve gotta know what a terrible idea that is, right? Like, I was never going to let you do it in the first place because it’s super fucked up, but also, no offense, but you can’t even… we haven’t even been able to fuck like that, you know? Seems like that would probably come up, man.”

“That’s different,” Art said defensively. “That’s just with you.”

“What do you mean, it’s just with me? You think it would be easier with some strange guy?” Patrick sounded skeptical.

“I don’t think I’d fall apart on ‘some strange guy,’” Art argued, but it didn’t surprise him that Patrick didn’t get it. Patrick had no idea how to disguise what he was feeling, had never really needed to, whereas that was a necessity for a slave. Art never would’ve survived the Donaldsons, let alone Mr. Zweig, if he hadn’t mastered that skill at a young age. When Art broke down in front of Patrick out of something other than severe physical pain or snapped at him or got sarcastic with him, that was only because he knew it was safe to do it.

“If you say so.” Patrick shook his head. He opened the window and lit a cigarette. “But I bet it would fuck with you more than you think.”

Art sighed. He’d spent a lot of time recently wishing that Patrick would understand things. “It’s just… it’s not like I haven’t done it before, okay?”

Patrick did a double-take.

“Uh, what?” he growled, about to explode.

“Not– not for money,” Art hastened to clarify. “I just mean, having sex with someone because they wanted to. It’s not like I haven’t done that before. It wouldn’t be a huge deal.”

Patrick stared at him for several seconds before he spoke. “Are you talking about getting fucking raped? Please don’t tell me you’re seriously trying to convince me that it would be okay for me to prostitute you because you’ve been raped.”

“No,” Art objected, even though by that he knew Patrick meant what had happened with Mr. Zweig and with that kid Matt Byer, and he sort of had been including those occasions, mentally. “I just, I know I can handle it. There have been times, is all.”

“‘Times’ like when?” Patrick asked him, looking sort of dangerous. And too late, Art realized that he had made a grave tactical error, backed himself into a corner he did not want to be in.

He explained reluctantly, “Like… times when, you know, I could tell you and one of your girlfriends really wanted to have a threesome so I just… went with it.”

“You didn't want to have sex, but you ‘just went with it,’” Patrick parroted him after a pause, brow furrowed. “And how often would you say you ‘just go with it’ with me?”

Art's mouth fell open. “That– that’s not–” he stammered.

That was completely different. Because Patrick was his…

But that was definitely not what Patrick wanted to hear right now.

And Art liked having sex with Patrick, of course he did. It was just, Patrick had always had such a ridiculously high sex drive, hadn’t he? And Art didn’t have too many cards to play, usually, and it was so effective when he wanted to reward Patrick or do something nice for him or soothe his hurt feelings. And anyway, wasn't that something free people did all the time? Have sex when they were a bit tired or annoyed or just not in the mood, for their partner's sake, for their relationship's sake? That didn't mean it was… that didn't make it…

“Jesus fucking Christ, Art,” Patrick said, dragging a hand over his face. In his other hand the cigarette was smoldering into a column of ash, ignored.

“You never made me do anything,” Art interjected, anxiety rising anew as he began to comprehend the gravity of what he’d just admitted to Patrick.

“No,” Patrick agreed. “No, it sounds like you’ve been making yourself.”

“It's not like that!” Art protested.

Patrick finally stubbed the cigarette out in the ash tray. “What is it like, then?”

“I just… sometimes there’s not that many things I can do for you,” Art said desperately. “You know?”

“And you want to do things for me,” Patrick supplied, “because I’m your master.”

“Not just because of that.”

“But that’s part of it, right? You belong to me, and you want to do things for me because I’m your master, so sometimes you end up having sex for me and not for you. That’s what you’re saying, basically?”

“I… I guess,” Art said, voice soft, feeling defeated. He had once again opened his big stupid mouth and made everything worse.

“Yeah,” said Patrick, “that’s a fucking problem for me, Art. We’re not doing that anymore. And you are sure the fuck not having sex with strangers so I can make money off of it, are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“Well– well, something else, then!” Art pleaded, needing to get away from the subject of sex. “You could rent me out for something else, something that would be steadier money, just until we build up some savings. It doesn’t have to be that.”

“Oh, yeah? You want to tend bar, Art, maybe wait tables?” Patrick jeered. “Or do you want to be a fucking tennis player?”

"Fuck tennis!" Art said intensely. Patrick looked taken aback. “Patrick, none of that shit matters. The only reason I play professionally is because you tell me to. That’s not my job. You’re right, you are my master, I do belong to you. And that means my only real job is to take care of you, and you’re not letting me!”

“Are you kidding me?” Patrick said. “You’ve gotta be kidding. Because it’s my job to take care of you, and in case you didn’t notice,” here he spread his arms to indicate their situation, “I am fucking failing. At least my evil sack of shit father kept a roof over your head and didn’t have you begging him to please whore you out so you could sleep indoors and still have enough money to eat the next day. You’d be better off with–”

Patrick cut himself off, but Art knew damn well what he’d been about to say, and the fury struck him like a bolt of lightning. Really? Really? Patrick was going to sit there and tell Art that he would be better off with Mr. Zweig, after everything he’d seen Art go through, after what he knew?

Patrick went on: “You’d be better off with basically anyone else!”

“Yeah?” Art said coldly. “Maybe you should sell me, then.”

Patrick’s face came near to his, matching his anger. “Maybe I fucking should!”

Then Art was kissing him, attacking Patrick with his mouth, hands on him, nails raking his skin as Patrick dragged Art’s body in as close as possible. Their teeth clacked, lips pushing at each other with bruising force, hands everywhere they could reach.

“I’m never,” Patrick got out between kisses, “never fucking letting you go.”

“Yeah?” Art goaded him on.

“Not ever, not until you fucking beg me for it, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Art said, ripping at the fly of Patrick’s jeans. Patrick seized his wrist and pulled away from his mouth.

“Wait,” he panted. “Wait. Just… you do want… you actually want to…?”

Art laughed wildly. “Shut the fuck up, Patrick,” he said, grabbing Patrick by the hair and yanking him back in.

And so, yet again, what might have been the most serious argument Art had ever had with Patrick blew over in a haze of sex. They spent the remainder of the night kissing but more slowly, lazily, familiar in the way of two people who’d been doing it for almost a decade.

But later on, after midnight, seats reclined as far back as they could go, yet again Art found himself awake and alone with his thoughts. Long after Patrick had passed into a fitful dose, Art stayed up, staring off into space, thinking, planning.

***

Summer 2010

Art qualified for the Cincinnati Open by the skin of his teeth, but he did qualify, and he and Patrick were pretty psyched about it. By that point Patrick’s injury had healed completely, and he was back up to his full strength, too. On top of that, Art was on something of a hot streak. As a result, they were doing pretty okay on money for the moment. It wouldn’t last forever – there had always been peaks and valleys in their winnings – but some of the immediate tension around their finances had eased.

And that was a relief for the obvious reasons, of course, since stressing about money always sucked. But it was also a relief because the tension between Patrick and Art themselves had never been worse. It was funny, in hindsight, that Art had thought Patrick was being careful with him during the spring. Now he would have killed for the days when Patrick would just interrupt sex to ask whether Art was alright.

If Art had hoped that that initial session of angry fucking in the car meant that Patrick was over his concerns, he was in for a world of disappointment. Since then, their sex life had taken a nosedive unlike anything they’d ever experienced before. Patrick could be coaxed like a frightened horse into getting Art off, sometimes, after Art assured him at least three hundred times that no, he wasn’t just doing this because he thought it was what Patrick wanted. God fucking forbid if Art wanted to return the favor. He hadn’t been allowed to blow Patrick once in the entire time since that argument, for example, which made it easily the longest stretch he’d gone without giving head since they’d started exchanging oral at the age of fifteen. Art had been reduced to sitting behind Patrick and whispering filth into his ear while Patrick masturbated– the very idea that Art had found so depressing when he pictured Patrick on tour by himself, except that Art was actually in the goddamn room with him.

It wasn’t only the sex, either, although that had always been an important part of Art’s relationship with Patrick. Patrick just… didn’t trust Art, anymore, it seemed. It was brutal, the one-two punch of learning the secret about Patrick’s dad and learning that the sex between the two of them had been occasionally less enthusiastically consensual than Patrick had understood. Patrick was paranoid that Art was hiding any number of other little surprises from him, which was obnoxious as hell and also made Art want to confide in him less than ever. It made Art want to be with him less than ever.

The news that Tashi was also going to be in Cincinnati with Katerina could not have been more welcome. Even better, Patrick had given his blessing for Art to get dinner with her by himself, since Patrick was still on Tashi’s shitlist. Both the chance to see Tashi and the rare opportunity to get away from Patrick were a godsend. Especially because Art had an idea he wanted to float to Tashi, and it was a pretty big one.

Like the coward he was, Art couldn’t bring himself to start that conversation until they’d split dessert and Tashi was paying the check. It wasn’t merely gutlessness, though. It was also just really, really fucking nice to see her. Even small things, like, he’d known that Tashi had chopped her hair short from the selfies she occasionally texted him, but he hadn’t realized how good it looked in person, brushing just past her collarbones. Tashi was beautiful, but the best parts of her couldn’t be captured in a static photo. It had always been the way she moved and spoke, her presence that got to Art. He’d been grateful to have what he did of her for the last three years, her texts and her pictures, but this was different.

Apropos of nothing (Tashi had just been critiquing the height of his ball toss, based on the last match of his she’d watched online), Art looked at her at that moment and said, “Maybe it’s not my place to say this. But I’m really proud of you, Tashi.”

Tashi set down her mug of tea and sank back against their booth, scoffing, “Oh God.”

“I’m serious, I’m serious!” Art insisted. “You’re doing really well.”

“Okay,” Tashi sighed and pushed back her hair, resigning herself to this. “What, did you think I was gonna like… kill myself after the injury?” she laughed.

Art smiled, too. “No, I’m just glad that you didn’t quit tennis.”

“Yeah, well, unfortunately my only skill in life is hitting a ball with a racket,” Tashi said self-deprecatingly.

Art laughed and hung his head a little. Same. “You’re a good coach, though. I would have been screwed these last few years without you.”

Tashi rolled her eyes. “I’m nobody’s coach. I’m just Katerina’s hitting partner.”

Art’s heart started beating faster, but he didn’t let it show. He kept his voice light as he said, “Maybe you want to jump ship? Be my coach for real.”

Tashi just looked at him.

“Aw, I get it,” Art said, laying his trap. He knew her thoughts on this. “You want to work with someone who has a little bit more potential.”

“Potential?” Tashi’s eyebrows shot up. “Art, that is all you have. I mean– who’s coaching you right now, since Karl left?”

Art had told her that he and Patrick had stopped working with Karl, but he’d been vague on the reason. Speaking of things that were Not His Place: airing Patrick’s dirty laundry regarding his family or his money problems would’ve been way out of line. He got the sense that Tashi thought Karl had quit after a fight with Patrick or maybe that Patrick had fired Karl in a fit of pique. “Well…” he said, looking down at the table.

Tashi snorted. “Exactly. But I see you out there, working your ass off, getting better all the time. Problem is, your idiot owner has never known what to do with you. Patrick is wasting you. You are rotting on the vine.”

“Sounds like you really do want to coach me,” Art dangled.

“Seriously, do you think that would be a good idea?” Tashi said.

“Why not?” Art asked innocently.

Tashi looked unimpressed. “Art. I am never fucking working with Patrick Zweig.”

And he’d anticipated that objection. Even if she wasn’t training Patrick directly, you couldn’t really coach a slave without working with their owner, and he knew how Tashi felt about Patrick. This was it.

“Maybe you want to buy me, then,” Art suggested.

And Tashi wasn’t rich, he knew that. But he also knew that winning multiple Slams came with pretty serious cash, even just for junior tennis. Then there was the Adidas sponsorship she’d once had. Plus, Tashi had told him that her parents would barely accept a cent she won playing tennis, setting everything aside for her that they could. Tashi had the money. And Patrick could use it, could live off of it for a long while if he was frugal. It would give him a chance to get his career off the ground, anyway. And things between him and Art couldn’t go on the way they had been. Art couldn’t fucking stand it anymore.

Tashi’s face changed: startled, then confused, then skeptical. “Patrick would never sell you,” she said slowly.

“I think he would,” Art said, “to the right buyer.”

Hanging in the air, unspoken but clear to both of them, was the fact that Tashi was the only buyer that Patrick might consider selling to.

“Okay, well, I’m not a homewrecker,” Tashi put in.

“No,” Art agreed. Tashi wouldn’t be wrecking a thing. Art was the one who had ruined everything already. He leveled Tashi a challenging look. “You want to build something, don’t you?” Nausea rolled through him – Art knew exactly whom he was quoting – but he pushed it away.

Tashi was staring straight ahead of her now, contemplating. And maybe Art should’ve felt guilty, trying to use Tashi like this. But he understood the real appeal of this offer to her, and it had nothing to do with coaching.

It was fair because Tashi was going to use him, too.

She looked back at his face, studying him. “You want to belong to me, Art?”

Art dropped his eyes for a second, then met her gaze. Quietly, sincerely, he answered, “Who wouldn’t?”

A smile spread across Tashi’s face, and she huffed a little laugh. Successfully flattered, once again.

Out in the parking lot, they strolled back to Tashi’s car, and she drifted a few feet away from him. They both swayed where they stood, the moment uncertain. Art bit his thumbnail, watching her.

Finally, Tashi laughed. "What?" she said, perhaps a bit self-conscious, shifting around in her short seafoam-green dress and her high-heeled sandals, dressed up as if for a date. She looked incredible.

“Nothing,” he said, like a fucking pussy. But as she always did, Tashi had his number.

She strode up to him, her bag dangling next to her. Inches away, she tilted her head and put her hands behind her back, saying, “You want to kiss me right now.”

Art smiled at that, somewhat genuinely, somewhat sadly. “I think I might be the worst slave in the world.”

The corner of Tashi’s mouth lifted. “To whom?” she asked him.

She leaned in and pressed her lips against his, one hand coming up to his neck, touching along his collar, then the other in his hair as Art’s own hands came out of his pockets to rest on her waist. He could feel it again in his chest, that thing he’d been missing for years, Tashi, Tashi, Tashi. They wrapped their arms around each other, kissing sweetly.

Then they both jumped a little, breaking apart at a smashing sound. Across the parking lot an Applebee’s employee was throwing trash into the dumpster.

“Oh my God,” Tashi said, and then they were laughing, holding onto each other. Not Patrick, leaping out of the shadows to accuse them. They were safe.

They started making out again, this time more urgently. Art licked into Tashi's mouth, groping at the soft skin of her thigh, squeezing her ass, pushing her up against the car, out in public, fearless now.

***

Art heard nothing significant from Tashi in the next several days, though as usual they exchanged some commentary on the tournament, and she gave him pointers on his matches. Then again, Art knew it wasn’t him she’d reach out to when the time came.

He was right. It was only after Art lost in the third round that Patrick received the message from her.

“Holy shit,” Patrick said, staring down at his phone. “Tashi texted me; she said not to leave town tomorrow. She wants to come by and talk to me.” He looked up at Art in amazement. Tashi had not contacted Patrick in any way in the three years since her injury, let alone said she wanted to see him, talk to him. “What the hell did you say to her at that dinner?”

“No idea,” Art said, mirroring Patrick’s surprise back to him. Art had already given Patrick a sanitized version of his dinner conversation with Tashi, mostly full of tennis-talk.

One more day, then, until Art wrecked his own home permanently, one way or the other. That night he went to the protracted effort of convincing Patrick to let Art fuck him. Apparently his earnest desire, or perhaps his need, to do so came through, because Patrick gave in and allowed it. Art cuddled up close to him in the aftermath, clinging until Patrick laughed and asked him if everything was okay, at which point Art forced himself to behave normally.

Patrick was a bit nervous the next day, wondering what Tashi wanted to talk to him about. Art, meanwhile, was extremely nervous, though unlike Patrick he knew exactly what was going on, and unlike Patrick he had to hide his nerves in order to avoid raising suspicions.

When Tashi arrived at their hotel room to meet with Patrick (and Art was very glad they’d had the money to spring for something halfway-decent instead of forcing her to come to some fleabag motel), this time Art didn’t run to the door along with him at her knock. He let Patrick open it, staying seated on the bed. Tashi walked in, dressed more casually than she had for Art, dark jeans and a simple black shirt under the same black leather jacket she’d worn to dinner.

“Hey,” Patrick said, wearing the shitty little smirk he put on when he wanted to hide apprehension. “It’s… been a long time. How’ve you been?”

Tashi gave him a look that was borderline-disdainful, perhaps because all three of them knew Patrick had been spying on her texts with Art for three years and therefore knew perfectly well how she’d been. “Fine,” she said briskly. “But I need to talk to you,” her gaze went to Art, “in private.”

Patrick shifted, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Okay, sure.”

Art stood, grabbing his phone, wallet, and room key from the bedside table.

“Don’t go far,” Tashi ordered him. Art nodded, wordless. Yes, ma’am. Then, with one last glimpse at Patrick – this precious version of Patrick who did not yet know the fucked up, traitorous thing Art had done – he left the room.

Once outside, Art hesitated. He could probably go down to the lobby or something; Tashi would have told him if she didn’t want him to. Instead, he crossed to the other side of the hall and sank down to the carpet opposite the door to their hotel room, and he stared at it, arms wrapped around his knees. And he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Art tried to entertain himself, fucking around on his phone, but it was useless. Worries ran amuck through his mind, some more rational than others: what if Tashi had no intention of purchasing Art but had instead come to tell Patrick all about Art’s plan, what if she was in there tearing him apart right now? What if Patrick refused to sell Art but hated him for trying to get away, and they were stuck together? What if this was the thing that finally broke down Patrick’s resistance to hurting him? Jesus Christ, what had Art been thinking? It was all he could do to prevent himself from standing at the door with his ear pressed to it, so desperate was he to know what was going on in there.

He checked the time every thirty seconds or so, always sure they had to be done any minute, but it had been, shit, fifty fucking minutes of Art sitting out in that hallway, and nothing–

The door opened, and Art shot to his feet as Tashi emerged, holding a file folder that must have been hiding in her capacious purse and also carrying Art’s duffel bag over her shoulder. She swung the latter down and thrust it out to Art. He accepted it, dumbfounded.

“It’s done,” Tashi said, looking grim. “You can go say goodbye if you want.”

But before Art could move an inch, the door was flying open again. Patrick swept out, and he looked rough. His hair was a mess, like he’d been dragging his hands through it, and his eyes were reddened. Art gripped the bag in his arms harder.

“Explain it to me,” Patrick demanded, looking at Art. “Explain to me how the fuck you can want this.”

Some unfamiliar part of Art burst forth, whether brave or suicidal or resentful, and he found himself snapping, “Why? Do you still need me to beg?”

Patrick laughed humorlessly. “You know she doesn’t give a shit about you, right? She’s just looking for a stand-in, a surrogate body since hers is fucked. You might as well be a goddamn mannequin as long as you could play tennis and keep her bed nice and warm.”

Tashi cut in now, eyes flashing. “So that’s what you think he is to me? A racket and a dick? And what is he to you, Patrick, your boyfriend? At least I’m not fucking delusional.”

Patrick got right up in Tashi’s face, practically nose-to-nose. “I love him.”

Tashi looked disgusted, and when she spoke, she enunciated every word: “If you loved him? You would’ve freed him.”

And that took Patrick off-guard. His jaw dropped, and he stepped back like Tashi had physically pushed him. He made a scoffing noise, but nothing followed it out of his mouth. His eyes went from Tashi’s to Art’s, then back. For once, Patrick had nothing to say.

“Let’s go,” Tashi told Art. “We’re leaving.” She turned and began to walk away, not checking to see if Art was behind her.

Art looked at the floor for a moment, then slowly dragged his eyes up Patrick’s body to his face, getting a last look at this version of Patrick, as well, the one who knew he’d been stabbed in the fucking back. Neither of them spoke. Then Art turned away from him, too. And then he followed his new mistress’s retreating back down the hall, thereby leaving Patrick Zweig’s service forever.

Chapter Text

Summer 2011

Art had never doubted that Tashi could help him succeed. Nevermind what he thought of his own abilities, he had always believed in hers. Even so, the past year had been nothing short of insane.

Art’s previous “hot streak” looked like kid stuff, farcical. He had rocketed upward through the rankings this year in an unbelievable way. Art had never even had the chance to experience any renewed anxiety about once more being financially responsible for his owner, he had just started winning and basically hadn’t stopped. Patrick Zweig’s slave had been nobody, while Tashi Duncan’s was somebody, practically overnight. And in some ways it was easy, too. All Art had to do was exactly what Tashi told him. It was the opposite of the way he’d felt in the spring of the prior year, wracking his brain desperately for what he could do, just to come up empty. Art only had to quiet his mind, not think at all, merely do.

He was still busting his ass like never before, of course. If asked, Art would’ve said previously that he’d been working hard his whole life, first for the Donaldsons, then as a student at an athletic boarding school, then as a professional athlete. It turned out he didn’t know the meaning of the words. That was not to say that Tashi overworked him; there was no one more attentive to his body’s need for rest or his health in general than Tashi. She just expected his best from him, always.

And now there he was in the Atlanta Open, playing in a semifinal match that evening, and Tashi seemed to be under the impression that he could take the whole thing. It still didn’t seem real to Art, but he had long since submitted to trusting Tashi’s judgment over his own.

That morning, however, they were working on his forehand: Tashi wanted to see more power in it, and Art was trying to obey, launching back every ball she hit to him with perfect form. He was becoming rather downhearted, though, as no matter what he did, her face never changed.

Then, all of a sudden, it did. Except Tashi wasn’t looking at Art; instead, something in the stands had caught her attention. A few people had been watching Art practice – which was a few more people than had ever bothered to watch Art practice before this year – but she’d been paying them no mind. Yet when Art followed her gaze, he understood her distraction at once.

Art knew that Patrick was playing there, too, obviously. He had, in fact, been playing well enough that Tashi had started psyching Art up, preparing him for the possibility that he might be facing his former master in the final. Then, just last night, Patrick had lost his quarterfinal match. And Art wasn’t sure how he felt, after getting all worked up over the idea, disappointed or relieved or some messy combination.

But here Patrick was now, watching the two of them with a drink in hand, slumping with his legs draped over the seat in front of him. Suddenly feeling more emotions than he knew what to do with, Art forced his eyes away, putting them back on Tashi where they belonged.

And the ball she sent his way, right then, Art absolutely slammed with every ounce of force he could muster, a loud grunt ripping its way out of his throat. And finally, finally, Tashi lowered the next ball in her hand, and she gave Art the nod he’d been waiting for, the approval he was working so hard to achieve, every single day.

***

When Art started awake from a disturbing dream, he put his hand out reflexively for Tashi, only to find her missing from her place next to him. Every light in the hotel room was out, and the clock on the bedside table read 2:57 A.M. in glowing red letters. Art frowned at it. True, Tashi had still been up and dressed when Art passed out, watching clips of his win and taking notes for the final, but that had been hours ago. When the bathroom, too, proved empty, Art pulled on a gray hoodie and a pair of soft, dark pants, then stuffed his feet into his sneakers and set out to look for his mistress with a touch of worry. Tashi sometimes had trouble sleeping and was known to go for walks at odd hours, but Art hoped she had the sense not to be doing so in the middle of a strange city at three in the morning.

Downstairs, the front lobby was deserted aside from the concierge at the desk and a maid mopping up nearby. Art passed through a row of banners advertising the tournament, one of which featured him, like that wasn’t fucking surreal. Down the hall in the hotel bar, he spotted Tashi. Before he had time to enjoy any relief, though, he recognized the form sitting at the table across from her. It was Patrick. Art didn’t know what the hell he was still doing there, why he hadn’t left town today after yesterday’s loss, but there he was.

Art’s body tensed at once, prepared to run in and get between them, considering how they had left things last August. Within a second, though, his mind caught up, and he read their body language: Patrick was leaning in towards Tashi but not aggressively. He was actually holding Tashi's hand as he spoke, and she was just listening, knuckles over her mouth, not looking strained at all.

“Art? Mr. Donaldson?” came a voice from behind him, and Art turned to see a slightly flustered young woman. She fumbled with her bag and pulled out a pen. “Oh my God, I can’t believe my luck that I would run into you so late at night! Um, would you, uh…?” She reached back and snagged the baseball cap off her boyfriend’s head.

“Sure, yeah. There you go,” Art said, signing it distractedly. The first couple of times someone called him “Mr. Donaldson,” Art nearly had a fucking heart attack, tripping over himself to remind them that he wasn’t Mister anything. Lately, though, he’d stopped bothering to correct anybody. It reminded him too much of the old cliche: Please, call me Art. Mr. Donaldson is my father.

Ha. Ha.

“Thank you! Thank you,” the woman enthused.

“Thank you, ma'am,” Art answered mechanically.

But when he turned back, Tashi and Patrick had vanished. He looked around but saw no sign of them. Art stood there for a couple seconds, watching their now-empty table. Then there was nothing to do but to return to the room alone. So he did.

Once upstairs, Art kicked off his sneakers, sat down on the end of the bed, and hunched over with his elbows on his knees, lost in thought.

Ever since Art had left Patrick in Cincinnati, he had been trying to think about his old master as little as possible. He had not Googled Patrick in the past year, hadn’t watched his matches online or followed his movements. This wasn’t because of anything Tashi had directed him to do; she had actually been quite sensitive to his supposed needs as far as Patrick went and seemed to expect that Art would want to talk about him more than he did.

No, it was Art who had slammed that door shut. The only way he'd let himself keep track of Patrick was by monitoring the rankings, allowing his eyes to catch on Patrick’s name, at any given moment knowing Patrick’s standing as well as his own. And for the first two months or so, this had been torture, because during that period of time Patrick seemed to fall off the face of the Earth. He hardly seemed to be playing anywhere at all, and Art had been left wondering what had happened. Had Patrick been injured again, or had Art just left him so miserable that his tennis was suffering this badly, too? Was it possible that he was depressed enough that he’d just… given up? Art had no idea, could only watch Patrick’s name drop and drop and drop down the list, ever-further from Art’s rising one in a way that he couldn’t help but feel was symbolic.

Then one day that had just… stopped. Whatever Patrick had been dealing with, he’d obviously shaken it off, because he’d staged something of a comeback. It was nothing like Art’s meteoric ascent, but Patrick was actually doing really well at this point. So far, 2011 was his best year yet. And so it had gotten easier, over time, for Art to put him out of his mind.

All that progress had been shot to hell this past week, naturally. It was not a coincidence that he was having nightmares about Mr. Zweig again, the darkest things that were coupled with Patrick in his mind coming back along with the rest. But as much as he wished that Tashi had been there when he'd woken from that…

It was also none of Art’s fucking business, was it?

Tashi was free, that’s what it came down to. Free to see whomever she liked, fuck whomever she liked. Tashi attracted plenty of male attention, and though most of her own attention was devoted to coaching Art, once in a rare while she’d take someone up on a date or a hook-up. And Patrick had done the same thing, loads of times. Ultimately, this was no different. Buying Art had meant separating him from Patrick, but Tashi could do whatever she wanted.

Still, Art was experiencing anew all of those things he thought he’d left behind after Tashi's injury: this stupid and directionless jealousy, this desperation to know what they were doing and saying without him there. God, what if they got back together? Art wasn’t sure his heart could take a recurrence of their relationship, not after he’d fought so hard to let go of Patrick– but if that’s what Tashi wanted, there would be nothing to do but take it. The idea of being invited back into their bed brought on a maelstrom of feeling, lust and hope and queasiness, an odd sort of fear he had once associated with the idea of them getting married, of not knowing what his place was anymore.

Art considered waiting up for Tashi, putting himself out of his misery by seeing what she had to say as soon as she got back, but he wasn't sure that was such a good idea. The thought of her seeing Patrick without him was painful, but the thought of her lying to his face about it was worse. If Tashi came back and pretended she had been out for a walk after all, Art didn't know that he'd be able to hide his devastation.

Instead he undressed again and slipped back into bed, turning off the light. When Tashi returned, moving quietly to avoid waking him, Art kept his eyes closed and his breathing even. As she laid down next to him, Art could only wish that his mind would obey his commands as easily as his breath did.

***

If seeing Patrick in the stands the day before had made Art freshly determined to play his best, seeing him in the bar with Tashi seemed to have the opposite effect. Or perhaps it was more the fact that Tashi had decided not to say a word on the matter. As far as she was concerned, apparently, Art had slept right through her little outing and didn't need to know about it. And maybe if Art had felt some kind of righteous fury about that, it would have fueled him, made him want to work harder, be better. But Art felt no such thing. Tashi had every right to keep her affairs private from her slave if that’s what she wanted.

Regardless of the reason, just a few minutes into running drills, Tashi was signaling him to stop. She marched across the court toward Art with a look on her face that he never wanted to see directed at him.

“Is this how you’re gonna play tonight? Cause we can go ahead and withdraw now if you are. It’d be less embarrassing for both of us.”

Art lowered his eyes and didn’t answer.

Tashi reached out and gripped his chin, forcing him to look at her. She ordered him, “Tell me where your head is right now.”

And it was on the tip of Art’s tongue to say it was nothing, blame the night of genuinely poor sleep he’d had, between his dreams and his worries, and promise to get his head right immediately. But as he looked Tashi in the eye, he made himself swallow the words back. He didn’t want to lie to her.

Art had gotten into the bad habit of keeping things from Patrick, occasionally to protect himself from very real threats, but more often it was to protect himself from difficult conversations he didn’t want to have, emotions he didn’t like to think about. He didn’t want to do that with Tashi. There were a lot of reasons that Art was working so damn hard for her; it wasn’t only because Tashi’s approval was a high and her disappointment an unbearable weight. The thing about it was that Tashi had made sacrifices for Art, including but not limited to the serious money she’d laid out to buy him, as well as the time and effort she'd invested into coaching him. There were other things, too.

Two days after his purchase, Art had been the subject of a horrible screaming fight between Tashi and her dad. It was burned into his brain, the sight of Tashi’s face crumpling into tears as she broke down while Mr. Duncan bellowed over the phone, My own daughter! My own daughter! And Art felt fucking awful about it. He had never once given a moment’s thought to the fact that he might be coming between them, even though he knew about Mr. Duncan’s political leanings. No, Art had been too busy being fucking selfish, making himself an escape route from Patrick, screw the consequences. Tashi and her father had never quite stopped talking to one another, but still, there was a distance and a tension in their previously close relationship that persisted to that day.

In short, Art owed Tashi a lot. Surely that meant owing her the truth, didn’t it?

“I saw you. In the bar last night with Patrick,” Art said. Tashi’s eyes widened, and her hand dropped away from his face. “And I know, okay, I know it’s none of my business, I know you can do what you want. But I saw the two of you, and you didn’t… you didn’t say anything about it. And yeah, I guess it bothered me.”

The surprise was gone from Tashi’s face, and in its place she was giving Art a speculative look. Then she said something completely unexpected:

“Do you want to see him, too?” Tashi asked.

“What?” Art said back, bewildered.

“Look, I get it. I can understand needing to get Patrick Zweig out of your system. I did. And I sure as shit can’t have you playing like this. So if that’s what you need, if that’ll help you, okay. I’ll call him, and if you win tonight, you can see him. Is that what you want?”

Art hesitated. “Are you sure he wants to see me?”

Tashi rolled her eyes. “Art. Don’t be fucking stupid. He told me last night that he was sticking around through the final, but even if he’d already taken off, I bet he’d race his ass back here the second I said you wanted to see him. So am I calling him or not?”

Art licked his lips, all of his nerves coming online at once, humming and crackling. “Call him,” he said.

***

At the door to Patrick’s hotel room, Art popped his knuckles and shook out his limbs to clear them of the excess energy that had built up there. Finally, he made himself knock.

The door opened, and for the first time in nearly a year Art found himself face to face with Patrick.

Patrick leaned on the doorjamb and looked Art over for several seconds, a small smile coming across his face. He said, “You look good.”

After a beat, Art raised his eyebrows. “You gonna let me in?” he asked, and Patrick moved back to allow him to enter the room. The place was decent, nothing fancy but reminiscent of hundreds of hotel rooms they’d stayed in over the years before Patrick’s fight with his father. That was reassuring, not that Art thought Patrick would’ve blown through the money he received from Tashi in a single year. “You look good, too,” Art confessed because it was true, and Patrick’s smile grew.

“S’good to see Tashi hasn’t changed a bit, you know, with that whole deal she made you. Congratulations, by the way. I watched it on TV. You were… pretty incredible. You have been all year.”

“Thanks,” Art said, a little uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he was too modest to accept a compliment or anything like that. It was more the unspoken question behind Patrick’s words, the question of whose fault it was that Art had never played so well for Patrick. Because of course Tashi’s coaching made a difference, a huge difference, but Art didn’t think that was everything. Even Tashi couldn’t make a mediocre tennis player the winner of the Atlanta Open with a snap of her fingers. She wanted him to excel, no, expected him to excel, and Art wasn’t sure he could say the same of Patrick. And as for Art’s role in it, he knew he must have been holding back for whatever reason, to avoid outshining his owner, maybe, a fear that didn’t apply to Tashi.

A silence fell over the room, and Patrick slapped at his pockets, looking for something to say.

“So,” he settled on, “Tashi said you wanted to talk to me?”

Art felt a swell of confidence and met his eye, stepping onto stabler ground.

“No, she didn’t,” Art said.

“No, she didn’t,” Patrick agreed, pushing the latter half into Art’s mouth because they were already kissing, hands groping at each other needily. Art broke away to kiss Patrick’s neck, kicking off his shoes and pushing up the hem of Patrick’s shirt. Patrick moaned out shamelessly, “I fucking missed you.”

Art didn’t answer in words, just started walking Patrick backwards toward the bed, yanking their shirts off and pushing him down once his legs hit the end of it. He went back to Patrick’s lips, but Patrick held him off with a hand on his chest. Art shot him a questioning glance.

“Did you miss me?” Patrick asked, and Art sighed, dropping his head and closing his eyes. He reopened them and gave Patrick a sardonic look.

“Yes, Patrick. I missed you,” he reported dutifully.

“What, was that so hard?” Patrick said with a little smirk, and Art lowered himself to kiss it off his face. This time Patrick allowed it, making encouraging noises when Art unbuttoned his jeans. Patrick pushed them down his legs and kicked them off as Art worked off his own, pulling down his underwear and socks with them and tossing them to the floor.

And then they were naked, and Art collected their half-hard dicks into his hand, giving them a gentle squeeze and a rub that made Patrick groan and stiffen further underneath him. Patrick reached out and fumbled for the bedside table, pulling a bottle of lubricant from the drawer. He opened it and offered it to Art, who took some into his palm before wrapping his hand around them again. This time they both groaned at the feeling as Art started to stroke them.

“Not… not that this isn’t,” Patrick’s hips bucked as Art began sucking on his earlobe after a minute of further kissing, “so fucking good. But…”

Art pulled back, stopping the motion of his hand. He studied Patrick for just a moment before he got it. “But you want me to fuck you.”

“Yeah.” Patrick licked his lips. “Yeah, I do.”

It was Art’s turn to smirk at him. “I can do that.” He reached for the lube again, and he put a hand on Patrick’s hip to guide him onto his stomach, since that was usually what Patrick liked best. But Patrick shook his head, putting his hand over Art’s.

“Like this,” Patrick said, and the smirk slid off Art’s face in exchange for something softer.

“Okay,” Art agreed. He moved back and knelt between Patrick’s legs, kissing the side of a knee before Art hitched it up over his shoulder. He pushed Patrick’s other thigh a bit further out, and he lubed up his fingers. Art slid his index finger into Patrick, being extra careful since it had been a long time now. Patrick tugged Art back up his body to kiss him some more, and Art went easily. He pressed his tongue against Patrick’s and rubbed his finger in him just so, knowing he’d done it right when Patrick sighed. “Another?” Art asked him, and Patrick nodded.

With two fingers pressed inside of him, Patrick started rocking his hips in rhythm with Art’s movements, clenching up and crying out when Art started to rub harder. “More, fuck,” Patrick said, and Art obliged him with a third finger and a faster motion. Then, before long, “Yeah, yeah, now, fuck me.”

Art removed his fingers cautiously and hissed a little when Patrick reached out and started spreading more lube down his cock, hand moving just this side of too roughly, perfect. He lined himself up and pressed slowly into Patrick, watching him for signs of discomfort that didn’t come. Instead, Patrick’s eyes went shut at the sensation, blissed out. He only opened them again when Art was fully seated inside of him, and he gave Art a lazy grin. Art was compelled to kiss him again, not to get rid of the smile this time but out of sheer affection for it.

“Want me to…?”

“Yeah,” Patrick murmured, and Art pulled out slightly to push back in, then again when Patrick seemed okay.

“Good?” Art asked once he’d built up a bit of speed, and Patrick nodded.

“Missed you,” he said again.

“I know,” Art answered softly. He pushed his face into Patrick’s neck and started thrusting harder, angling his hips in a way that set Patrick to moaning. After a while, the noises were replaced with praise.

“Fuck, yeah, Art, that’s good. You’re so good, need it. Nobody knows how to fuck me like you do,” and that made Art lift his face again, hips stuttering a little before he made himself resume his pace.

“What?” Art said, shaking his head.

“You thought – fuck – you thought I wouldn’t go looking for it? I did. Went to bars over and over and picked up blonds to nail me. But they didn’t know how to do it right. Cause they weren’t you,” Patrick told him with an expression that Art couldn’t quite read.

Art tried to process this information, taken by surprise. Patrick slept around plenty, but it was always with women. Art himself was different, a slave didn’t count, obviously. The news that Patrick was fucking guys now, and apparently ones that were doing it poorly, made a surge of jealousy flare up in Art’s chest. And that was, no doubt, exactly what Patrick wanted, thus the smug look rising to his face. Art began snapping his hips even faster in response.

“Fuck!” Patrick cried, and he took a hand off of Art to put it between their bodies and touch himself. Art pushed it away roughly, then pinned both of Patrick’s wrists above his head. Patrick struggled a little, but Art was only holding him down with one hand, and he knew the strength of Patrick’s arms well. Patrick could’ve easily gotten away if he wanted to.

Art thought about teasing Patrick for a while longer, but he was feeling pretty close himself, already clenching his muscles in an attempt to stave it off. “You want to come?” he asked instead.

“Yes, yes, fuck yes,” Patrick babbled, still pressing against Art’s hold. In response Art took his free hand and reached down to jack Patrick’s cock, smearing precum down the length of it. It didn’t take long before Patrick was spilling over Art’s hand and onto their stomachs, gripping Art hard between his thighs. Then Art let himself go, too, coming into the warmth of Patrick’s body with a gasp.

Beneath him that satisfied smile was returning to Patrick’s face, and on a whim, Art gave it a quick kiss and released Patrick’s hands so he could move down his body and hook his knees back over Art’s shoulders. Then Art lowered his face and laved his tongue over Patrick’s somewhat reddened hole.

“Holy shit!” Patrick said, body starting to jackknife upwards at the sensation, but Art’s hand soothed him back down as he worked his tongue more carefully, licking his own cum out of Patrick. They hadn’t done this too many times, but he knew Patrick enjoyed it, the borderline-oversensitized feeling it caused. “Ah, Art, Jesus.”

Art smiled against him. He didn’t keep it up for long, just a few more seconds before he gave one final parting lick and rose up to look at Patrick, placing his legs gently down on the bed.

“Fuck,” Patrick swore again, staring up at him.

“Yeah,” Art agreed, and then he reached for the tissues on the bedside table to clean them both off.

With that done, Art settled next to Patrick. Patrick’s hand came up to trace lines between the freckles on Art’s chest and shoulders while Art petted the fur of his thigh. They laid in silence for a few minutes. Art didn’t know what Patrick was thinking, but Art felt very aware that their time together was already drawing to a close. Tashi had given him permission to see Patrick and, implicitly, to fuck him, but she hadn’t offered to let him sleep over and Art hadn’t asked.

Patrick’s hand moved further up to drag a finger across the collar Tashi had given to Art (light blue, made of leather but soft, supple). Then it came down to flick the wooden cross on Art’s chest.

“Tashi making you wear one of these, now, too?” he asked.

“No,” Art answered, suddenly more somber. “It’s my grandmother’s. Kaylee sent it to me when she died. Stroke.” Thankfully Art had been allowed to keep his old cell phone when he left Patrick, because he wasn’t sure he would've had the presence of mind to get Kaylee’s number out of it if Patrick had demanded it back. And then he might never have known.

He’d crashed hard and spent about a week in bed when it happened. Poor Tashi had been blindsided, since they’d barely discussed Art’s grandma and certainly had never discussed Art’s previous bouts of depression. But she had been kind about the whole thing, once she understood the situation. Tashi had passed the better part of several days with his head in her lap, stroking Art’s hair and encouraging him to tell her about his grandmother. Eventually, though, she had informed him that he was either getting up and going outside so she could ease him back into their usual schedule, or he was getting up and going to a doctor’s office. And Art, of course, had dragged himself up for some goddamn tennis.

“Shit. Sorry. When was that?”

“Couple months after you… after you sold me,” Art forced the uncomfortable words out.

Patrick nodded and looked away, not speaking. Instead, Art floated the question that had been on his mind ever since he’d seen Patrick sitting across the table from Tashi, holding her hand:

“Why aren’t you pissed at us? I thought you’d be pissed.”

A grim smile came to Patrick’s face. “I was. I definitely was. I was kinda messed up about it for a while there. Did some… really crazy shit, actually. But I had pretty much nothing but time to think about it, and… Tashi was right. You know? What she said?”

Art swallowed hard, panic rising under the surface. He did not want to talk about what Tashi had said, which was way too big, too much to even think about. He dodged the subject for that reason and also because he’d been concerned by something else Patrick had mentioned. “Crazy shit like what?”

But Patrick just gave him a knowing look and shook his head. Instead of answering Art, he asked, “She taking good care of you? Tashi?”

“Tashi treats me fine, you know she does.” Art sat up with a frown. “Seriously, what did you mean?”

“That’s not what I asked,” Patrick pointed out.

“Patrick.”

“Okay. Crazy shit like… getting hammered and going for a drive or fucking anything that moved and doing bumps of coke off it, too, if I could get it. Stealing shit, smashing shit. Fucking miracle I didn’t get arrested, wasn’t for lack of trying. You happy you know that? You glad I told you?”

Art just looked at him.

Patrick sighed. “Well, you can relax. I’m fine now. I knocked all that shit off, okay? ”

“Okay,” Art said tightly.

“Course,” Patrick’s voice went bitter, “I guess it doesn’t matter if Tashi’s taking care of you. Cause what the fuck am I gonna do about it if she’s not, right?”

“Tashi takes care of me,” Art said, trying to be patient. He knew Patrick’s concern for him was just as genuine as his was for Patrick, even if it was less warranted.

Now Patrick sat up, too, and out of nowhere, he said, “She’s not in love with you.”

And Art’s patience was spent. “Patrick, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’ve seen her, I’ve talked to her. About you. And I’m sorry, but… she doesn’t love you.”

“Did I ever say I was in love with her?” Art demanded.

Patrick stared at him for a second. He said, quietly, “You didn’t.”

“So why would I give a fuck if she loved me or not?”

“I guess you wouldn’t.”

“Cool,” Art spat patronizingly.

“Cool,” Patrick repeated. Then, “Don’t you think you deserve it?”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Art rubbed a hand over his face. He got up and started pulling on clothes. “Do you seriously think I’m waiting around for Tashi to, what, fall in love with me? Free me so we can get married and have babies? What kind of cheesy bodice-ripper bullshit do you think I’m living? You know, what Tashi said was right. You are fucking delusional.”

“Wait,” Patrick said, holding up a hand, trying to stall Art.

Art gave a frustrated sigh. “Just… what was the point of telling me that? What am I supposed to do with it?”

Patrick looked at him sadly.

“Do you want me to run away with you or something?” Art went on, pulling his shirt over his head. “Do you want to be fugitives? Are you still trying to get arrested? Because that would be a great way! I bet it would finally work out for you.”

“Don’t leave like this,” Patrick begged, and that sliced right through Art’s anger. He felt it… not quite disappear but diminish suddenly. It was true that he’d parted ways from Patrick badly the first time, and he didn’t want to do it again, not today. Art stepped forward and sank back down onto the bed. He reached for Patrick to kiss him, and Patrick came eagerly, arms encircling Art.

After a minute, Art pulled away, pressing Patrick back with a light touch. “I really do have to go.”

Patrick searched his face for a moment, then he nodded. “I know.” He kissed Art, then once again, before finally releasing him. “Bye, Art,” he said.

Art leaned in one more time, putting his forehead against Patrick’s. “Bye, Patrick.”

Then he stood and finished putting on his clothes and shoes. He made himself walk over to the door and open it. Art turned around to look at Patrick for the last time in who knew how long.

“And, um. Happy birthday,” Art added.

Patrick gave him a tiny smile in response, not quite happy but not despondent either.

And Art figured that was the best he was going to get. So with that, he left.

***

The hotel where Art was staying with Tashi was only a short walk away, maybe seven minutes down the road, but even if it had been ten times as far, Art still wouldn’t have had time to take apart all the thoughts going through his head. And so, when he returned to Tashi, he returned rather agitated.

“How’d it go?” she asked warily, clearly seeing this in his body language, his face.

“Okay, I guess. Or, I don’t… I don’t know.” Art shook his head.

“Something happened?” Tashi said, raising her eyebrows.

“No, not really,” Art said. He definitely wasn’t going to repeat what Patrick had said about her. “But I don’t know how I feel right now.”

“That’s okay,” Tashi assured him, putting a hand on his cheek. She leaned in to kiss Art, then gave him a concerned look when he pulled back.

“I, um, I should brush my teeth. And shower,” Art said, very aware of where his mouth had just been, as well as various other parts.

“Yeah, you’re a little ripe,” Tashi responded, looking amused now. “Let’s do it.”

That brought a smile to Art’s face. “Oh yeah? You’re gonna join me?”

“Mmhm,” Tashi agreed. She ran the water while Art washed his hands and brushed his teeth. She graciously accepted the kiss he offered her afterwards.

In the shower, Tashi lathered soap between her palms and used her hands to wash Art’s arms and back as the two of them made out.

“You did well today,” she said when Art tilted his head down to kiss her shoulder. “I was proud of you.”

“I know,” Art said, because he did. He had seen that pride on her face when he looked to her in the stands, heard it in her voice when they were being interviewed side by side, the winner and his owner. Art had given all the credit for his success to his mistress, both because it was expected of him and because she deserved it.

The light of Tashi’s regard made for a warm place to stand.

Tashi mouthed at the column of his throat, now, enjoying the unimpeded access without his collar as her soapy hand slid down his torso, moving from his chest to his stomach and finally wrapping around his partial erection. Art released a shuddering sigh. Tashi stroked him lightly, cleaning him and teasing him at the same time.

“You’re gonna fuck me when I’m done,” Tashi instructed him.

“Yes, Mistress,” Art answered pliantly. She only required him to call her that in public, but she liked it sometimes in private, as well. She liked it now, apparently, judging by the look his words earned him.

Tashi dropped to her knees to clean his legs, and she took the opportunity to suck his cock into her mouth. Art felt her laughing around him when his head fell back against the shower wall with a thunk, and he let out a whine. Tashi stayed down there long enough to get him fully hard, then she rose to her feet again. They switched places so that Art had Tashi up against the wall, thumb working her clit and two fingers inside of her as Art ground his cock against her hip. They were kissing again, harder now.

Tashi pushed his hand away carefully and wrapped hers around the base of his dick, guiding him where she wanted him. Art pressed inside of her, closing his eyes at the soft, wet heat of her body. When he was all the way in, Tashi slid one foot up his calf, and Art got the message, putting his hands under her ass and lifting her up slightly as her legs came up around him.

“Fuck me,” Tashi commanded him, and, burying his face in her hair, Art obeyed.

Later, when they were in bed, fucked out and dried off, hands roaming across one another’s skin, Tashi brought up Art’s evening visit one last time.

“You don’t have to see him again if you don’t want to,” she told him softly.

Art nodded. “I don’t know how I feel,” he repeated. “I don’t know what I want.”

The corner of Tashi’s lip quirked. “You ‘don’t know what you want’ like you need to think about it?” she asked. “Or you ‘don’t know what you want’ like you want me to decide for you?”

Art sent a sheepish expression her way. Tashi really did know him pretty well. “I don’t know that either.”

She snorted. “Okay. Well, if it comes up, you let me know.”

“I will,” Art said. Then he paused before speaking again. “But, um. Could you do me a favor?”

“What?” Tashi asked.

“Just, if you see him again… if you’re with him again… tell me, please. Don’t keep it a secret next time. Could you do that?”

Tashi rubbed her hand down his arm, sliding it all the way to his wrist before giving his hand a squeeze. She hooked her pinky in his.

“I can do that,” she promised.

Chapter Text

Summer 2019

Decimate that little bitch, that had been Tashi’s command. It was amazing, the way that even now, after nine years together, the experience of failing her could be just as soul-killing as ever. And insult to injury, it had to be this idiot kid. Art had come across him once before, just a couple months back. The occasion had been… memorable.

They hadn’t played against one another then, only attended the same event. Leo du Marier was on the rise, barely eighteen, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and fresh-faced and various other shit Art had left behind years before. Once it became clear that they’d eventually face off, Tashi had begun doing her research, begun briefing Art for what to expect. And that was why Art had been profoundly startled when, passing each other by, he’d felt du Marier briefly press his fingertips against the pads of Art’s own. It had taken all his self-control not to twist around on the spot to stare. The guy didn’t wear a collar, he wasn’t a slave. Maybe Art had imagined it? Or was it possible that du Marier was a former slave, freed as a child? But surely something like that would have come up, right?

No, it was much worse than that. Leo du Marier was an abolitionist, he had oh-so-eagerly explained once he’d gotten Art alone in a locker room, concealed from the eyes of Tashi and the team. If there was any chance that Art could get away from his mistress, there was a meeting–

And Jesus Christ, it might have been better if the guy had just cornered Art to grope him like a normal person would’ve.

“You stay the fuck away from me,” Art told him in no uncertain terms, getting into du Marier’s face. “I don’t need this shit. You hear me?”

Because Art knew what might happen in a meeting like that. At best, it would be mostly slaves organized into a feelings circle to talk about the bad, bad masters that had hurt them. More likely, the meeting would have plenty of other abolitionists, people with ideas: ideas for how to jailbreak his phone, remove the blocks on the internet, plant a fake history for Tashi and spoof the tracker that went to her phone; ideas for some doomed plan to smuggle him to one of the few countries that had banned slavery and also lacked a strong extradition treaty with the U.S. And, oh yes, if Art was really lucky, the meeting would get busted up by the cops, and he would get arrested, whipped bloody and returned to Tashi half-dead. Art felt for any slave desperate enough to risk it, he really did, but no, he didn’t need that kind of trouble. Tashi was good to him. Art had a good life.

But he also wasn’t fucking heartless, so he held onto the small piece of paper that du Marier had pressed upon him, and Art slipped the phone number to Mr. Duncan the next time he saw him. It was one of the many things he did not discuss with Tashi’s father, a list that included essentially everything except tennis and Lily and Tashi and how Tashi’s mom was faring. Perhaps the weather, if they were feeling extra spicy.

The list also included the last time he had passed along information.

Art played other slaves only every once in a while– he was by far the highest ranked slave tennis player in the world, male or female. Two years ago, though, Art had had a match against one, last name Franklin, who’d shown up with bruises ringing his neck, poorly concealed with makeup. Tashi, clearly disturbed, had given an atypically shaky pep talk, and Art had only just managed to keep from throwing that one. Afterwards, unable to help himself, Art had placed a call to Tashi’s dad, and Mr. Duncan had promised him someone would “be in touch” with his opponent. Six weeks later, there had been a stir in professional tennis when Franklin disappeared. To this day, Art still wasn't entirely sure whether Mr. Duncan's friends had been behind that or whether something more sinister had occurred.

Thinking back on Franklin, Art felt a tiny bit bad about the frigid glare he’d given du Marier before the match. The guy might’ve been a dumbshit, yes, but his heart was in the right place, and he was also basically a fetus. Art probably would’ve felt worse about it if it wasn’t for the fact that this fetus had just decimated him.

On the screen, Art watched a smaller version of himself make an aborted motion, nearly hurling down its racket before regaining its grip. He’d been out there representing Tashi, and Tashi Duncan’s slave did not lose his cool, not in front of other people. He might’ve been a failure, but at least he didn’t fail her in that. The frustration of the moment already felt far away, like it had happened to somebody else.

“He was playing really well,” Art said drily in order to break the silence. Tashi had been saying nothing, just giving him pointed looks from three feet away on the couch and letting the rather dire commentary speak for itself.

She spoke now, though. “I’m pulling you out of Cincinnati,” Tashi sighed, hitting a button on her laptop to pause the recap she was casting to the TV.

“Tashi,” Art protested mildly.

“Might as well pull you out of the Open, too. If this isn’t gonna be your year, then why bother?”

“I think I’m just rusty,” Art offered. “It’s a confidence thing.”

“So let’s get your fucking confidence back. What do you want me to do?” Tashi challenged him.

“I’m not asking you for anything.” Art tried not to sound sulky and only partially succeeded. He picked up his protein shake and took a sip.

“Yeah? Maybe that’s the problem. You actually have to open your mouth and tell me when you want something,” Tashi returned. Art didn’t look at her, instead staring straight ahead. “I would’ve killed to have a recovery like yours. I literally would fucking stab someone… a child, an old lady, like…”

Art lowered his gaze and didn’t look up until Tashi leaned over to him and brushed her hand lightly under his chin. Then he forced himself to meet her eyes.

“What do we need to do to get you to play again?” Tashi asked. She shrugged slightly. “What do you need me to do, hmm?”

Art was spared from having to answer this question by the most welcome distraction. Tashi’s little girl appeared at the edge of the room, half-hiding behind the corner of the wall. Art looked at her, put his hand out to Tashi to point her attention in that direction.

Tashi turned to greet her. “Hey, baby.”

“Mommy?” Lily emerged fully now, a little mini-Tashi in PJs and a pale pink bathrobe with her dark curls pulled back in a ponytail, clutching the stuffed peach that had been in Tashi’s gift basket when they arrived in Atlanta.

“What’s up?” Tashi asked.

“Can we watch Spider-Verse?”

“Of course we can. Of course we can. Come here.” Tashi put her teacup down and held out her arm to invite Lily in. She settled her hands on Lily’s waist. “Mommy’s just talking to Art about tennis right now.”

“But you’re always talking about tennis,” Lily replied, her little voice plaintive.

“I know, I know.” Tashi’s eyes dropped for a second, and Art felt a sad half-smile pass over his face. Tashi was a good mother; she loved Lily with a fierceness that was otherwise reserved for tennis, but she was constantly torn between her intense focus on work and quality time with her daughter. Tashi grabbed her iPad off the coffee table. “Uh, ooh, how about this? How about you start it with Grandma? And then I’ll come in a second, and we can order some room service and watch it together. How about that?” She guided Lily back over to her grandmother. Their voices faded from earshot as Art watched them trail out of the room, chatting about the room service selection.

Lily did know, of course. About him, that Art was her father. She had gotten curious about where she came from, as all kids did, and Tashi had told her the truth. It was something Art himself had only learned after she was born. Tashi didn’t offer an explanation during her pregnancy, and it certainly wasn't Art's place to ask. It had seemed likely, statistically, but Tashi did go on dates every now and then and had the occasional boyfriend, so he couldn't be sure.

Even without knowing that part, Art had shed a few tears when Lily was born, tiny and perfect, beautiful and from Tashi's body. Then it was time to fill out her birth certificate, and he had cried again, much, much harder. Because not only was his name on it, Father: Arthur Donaldson, holy shit, but so was the name, Lily Harper Duncan. Without saying a word to Art, Tashi had named their baby after his grandmother, whom she had never met and whose importance to Art she knew only secondhand. And in that moment it didn’t matter that Art was a slave who could never be a proper parent to their free (thank God, thank God she was free) daughter. Art had sat at Tashi’s bedside and wept until a nurse came by and asked if she wanted him sedated.

“She likes it here,” Tashi’s voice broke in on Art where he had been staring off into space.

“Do you… want to keep staying here?” Art asked her, surprised at the idea. Tashi had been restless for as long as he’d known her, patient when she needed to be but never settling anywhere for long, not voluntarily. On the other hand, Tashi had been known to do uncharacteristic things for the small circle of people she loved most.

Tashi looked him over for a second, studying him with an impassive face. Then she said, “Can’t. We need to get you some more match time, ASAP.” She walked over and picked up her phone, rejoining him on the couch but this time cuddling close, legs drawn up.

“I can play Cincinnati,” Art put in.

“No. No, you cannot, not like this,” she responded, eyes on the screen as Art trailed his hand up her calf. “Okay, maybe– maybe New Rochelle.”

“That’s a challenger,” Art said in disbelief. The prize money was peanuts. He hadn’t played for so little since around the time Tashi purchased him.

“Yeah, I know that. It’s in a couple days, maybe we can get you a wildcard.”

Art turned his face away, feeling the sting of the insult as he was no doubt meant to. Tashi never formally punished Art, never hit him or screamed at him. But she had her ways, and he knew them when he saw them. Art had spent years slugging it out at challengers before Tashi scooped him up and set him on a better path. He might’ve still been there if it wasn’t for her.

Tashi looked at him. “Art.”

He made a quiet noise of acknowledgment, still tracing his fingers over her skin.

“You need to start winning. Right now you’re getting crushed by guys like du Marier. So we need to go somewhere where there’s absolutely nobody on the other side of the net who can shake your fucking confidence.” Once again, she physically turned his face toward hers and made him meet her eyes. “That’s why we’re going to…” she waved dismissively, “Phil’s… Tire Town… Challenger.”

Art huffed a small laugh. Punishment or no, it didn’t matter. This wasn’t his call. “Okay. You’re the boss,” he told her, taking her hand and giving her thumb a gentle bite.

“Yeah,” Tashi agreed, eyes moving over his face. Then she turned and gestured to something on the coffee table in front of them. “You know, I left that for you. Wanted to know what you thought.”

It was an ad, or rather a mockup of one, and Tashi didn’t often seek out his opinion when it came to promotional stuff like that. Art hadn’t paid the paper much attention, but now he reached for it with curiosity.

On the left side was a car under the Aston Martin logo and the words Unrivaled Power. The right side was of more interest. Game Changer, it said in large letters over a much smaller Aston Martin X Duncan-Donaldson. Below that was an illustration, a car in front of a city skyline, and in the foreground, he and Tashi. Art was in profile, gazing admiringly at his owner, while Tashi looked out at the viewer with a half-smirk, face projecting confidence.

Tashi had drawn on the image in red Sharpie, outlining their faces and underlining the r at the end of the word Changer, but there were no other markings to provide an indication of her opinion.

“I like it,” Art answered honestly. “You look good. Strong.”

Tashi tilted her head, once more looking like she was analyzing him. This had obviously been a test of some kind, though for what, Art didn’t know. When it came to tennis, Tashi had no trouble coming right out and telling him what she expected from him. Sometimes, though, it could be tiring, trying to divine what his mistress truly wanted, trying to give it to her, feeling adrift. Tashi was so much harder to read than… than some other people were.

“I like it, too,” Tashi said, eyes darting away from him, sounding for some reason like she was admitting to something shameful. Then she looked back up at him, face soft. Whatever the test had been, Art had apparently passed. She put a hand on his cheek. “You know that you’re very important to me,” she said seriously, looking him in the eye like she was trying to convey something more, bigger than just that. Art turned his face in her hand to kiss her palm.

“I know,” he said.

He did know. Art was only somebody because of Tashi, but the truth was that Tashi was only somebody because of Art, too. As his owner, Art had made Tashi a wealthy woman and star in her own right, made the Duncan Foundation possible, hell, he had given her Lily, whom Tashi loved more than anyone in the world. But it wasn’t just that.

After his shoulder was injured, Art had been afflicted with a recurring nightmare. The details varied, but the central beats remained: his doctor telling Tashi that Art would never play again, Tashi finding some other way for him to make money, auctioning him off or renting him out, finally taking those rich people who wanted to fuck a celebrity up on their offers. In the light of day, Art knew these fears were irrational. On top of the fact that Tashi had never once shared him (even though he was aware that at least one boyfriend had asked), he also knew that Tashi cared for him deeply, considered him a kind of family. One night, when one of these dreams had woken them both, Art panting and sweating, Tashi had pried the truth out of him. And she had looked him in the eye, pushing back his bangs with an unusual tenderness, and told him intently, "You’re stuck with me. You belong with me, with us. And that shit is never going to happen." It had meant a great deal more than he’d expected to hear her say it.

Here and now, Tashi leaned in and gave Art a slow kiss, lingering and sweet. Then she stood and hit the space bar on her laptop, restarting the match commentary. Walking away, Tashi said, “Okay, I’m gonna call Tom and see if he can get you in the draw. Don’t get knocked out the first round.”

“You’re evil,” Art called to her departing back. Once she’d disappeared, Art let himself sink back against the couch. He watched the recap from the corner of his eye, and he willed himself to focus on it, to follow Tashi’s unspoken order, to ignore the feeling encroaching at the edges of his mind, the one that came on whenever he was alone now. Art had a job to do, he reminded himself. He didn’t have time for this. And besides, everything would be fine.

***

Tashi truly was an evil genius, Art thought, staring at the names.

Staring at one name in particular.

If she’d planned this, if she’d taken a gamble that this was what Art’s game needed, what he needed to shake him out of his funk… well, it was a brilliant maneuver, if a risky one. After all, it was hard to know what kind of effect Patrick would have on him.

Art, in contrast, felt like a fucking moron, not having anticipated this. How many of these podunk little tournaments had he been to at Patrick’s side? Four years of one after another, and this possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind?

But he supposed that’s what happened when you spent eight years (eight fucking years) trying not to think about someone (and about everything they said to you, about what you'd been through together). After so much practice, Art couldn’t help but be good at it.

Impressive, really, when there were so many things about this time of year that should have brought Art’s former master to mind. Today was Patrick’s birthday, which made it eight years to the day since Art had last seen him in Atlanta, last talked to him, last fucked him. That picture he’d seen right before his match with du Marier, taken that very day. And Cincinnati. Kind of amusing, that it was avoiding the place where he’d been sold that brought Art back to Patrick. Inadvertently or otherwise.

“He’s on the opposite side of the draw,” Tashi said, and Art ripped his eyes away from the word Zweig to look at her. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if he flames out tomorrow, anyway.”

“Who?” Art said innocently, and Tashi’s lips turned up a little at the joke.

“Funny.” A pause. "Is this going to be a problem?"

Art handed her back her phone and leaned against his pillow, sheets cool against his bare skin. Tashi had known about this for hours, had waited until now to drop the bomb for whatever reason, when they were alone and undressed, Lily long since put to bed.

“It won’t be,” Art promised her as if he had any right to do so, as if his brain wasn’t whispering Patrick, Patrick, Patrick, some caged animal inside of him stretching its legs for the first time in so, so long.

And Tashi must have known he was full of shit, Tashi always knew. But she only said, “Good.” Then she went back to staring at Art, waiting for him to speak. Art sank down on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. Once it was clear that he wasn’t going to say more, Tashi sighed and added, “Do you remember what we talked about last time?”

Art turned to her and shook his head, not sure what she was referring to.

“You told me you didn’t know if you’d want to see him again. Not that I thought that it would take eight fucking years for it to come up, but…” Tashi rolled her eyes. They hadn’t gone out of their way to avoid Patrick; they hadn’t needed to. Art and Patrick didn’t exactly travel in the same circles anymore. Their careers had taken rather different trajectories. The last time Art saw him, Patrick had been having his best year yet. To his knowledge, that was still Patrick's best year to date. What was he even ranked these days? He wasn't in the top two hundred, was he? Was he even in the top three?

Art frowned. “If we do both make it to the final–”

Tashi raised a hand to interrupt him. “Art. You know what I mean. And I know what he is to you. Are you going to want to see him or not?”

He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Jesus, what did he know. If Tashi had a clue what Patrick was to him, that made exactly one of them. His eyelids lifted again.

“Tell me what to do,” Art implored her.

Tashi nodded slightly, mouth in a straight line. She gazed out ahead of her and considered it for nearly a full minute before she spoke again.

“I don’t want him messing with your head. Steer clear of him for now.”

“Okay.” Art could accept that answer. He felt the mixed emotions that Patrick always inspired in him, but predominantly what he felt was relief at having the choice taken away.

“You gonna be up all night thinking about this?” Tashi asked him. Then she leaned in and put a hand on his thigh. “Or can I take your mind off of it?”

Art didn’t answer, just met her lips in a kiss that quickly turned steamy, tongues deep, teeth nipping at one another. He put a hand on Tashi’s hip as one of hers came up to wrap lightly around his throat, and with the other he cupped the curve of her breast, thumbing her nipple through the thin fabric of her nightgown, feeling it hardening.

Tashi reached for the hem of the garment and lifted it over her head, tossing it aside. Art dragged the backs of his fingers down her side, taking in her nude form. Tashi might have been a mother and not the athlete she’d been when he met her, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her, fit as ever. Art had worried a little after Lily was born, worried about how tough Tashi was on her body, whipping herself back into shape in a few short months. But Tashi had seemed to enjoy it, the chance to go hard, to exercise a ghost of the discipline with which she’d once trained. Exhausted though she’d been with late-night feedings and endless hours of walking the floors with the baby, there had been a glint in her eye in those days, something steely, something excited.

Tashi took one of Art’s hands and moved it between her legs, and Art pushed against her at once with the heel of his palm, applying the broad pressure she liked through her labia, rocking his hand against her. Tashi’s head dropped back as she gasped, then came forward again to kiss and lick and suck on Art’s ear, then his jaw and neck, making his cock stiffen.

Eventually, Tashi brushed Art’s palm away and nudged his thighs apart, moving to straddle one. Art’s hands went back to her hips, urging her on with a hissed "Yes" as she ground out a climax on the muscle there, wet and shuddering.

“Take these off,” Tashi directed him, plucking at the underwear that was doing a poor job of covering his straining erection, and she moved aside just enough for him to push them down his legs and kick them off. Without waiting any longer, Tashi gripped the base of his cock, positioned herself over it and sank down. Art released a groan at the sensation, and Tashi reached for his face, thumbs sliding over his cheekbones. She started to ride him. “You gonna give me what I want, Art? Make me come again, fill me up with yours?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m gonna give you everything you want,” Art gritted out, eyes closed. He placed a hand on her inner thigh, thumb working at her clit, and Tashi started bouncing against him harder.

“That’s good. But you’re always good, aren’t you?” Tashi asked him. When Art opened his eyes, she was cocking her head, looking at him, dissecting him again. He didn’t quite know what to make of it.

“I’m trying. For you,” he said nakedly, not sure if the moment called for this kind of honesty.

“I know,” Tashi told him, and she leaned in to kiss him once again, hard, searing. Art grabbed her ass and kissed back just as firmly, then rolled her over onto her back. Tashi gave an encouraging moan as he started to thrust into her hard, and for a few minutes there was only the sound of skin slapping against skin obscenely. Then: “I’m gonna come. Fucking give it to me!” Tashi ordered him, and Art did, fucking her roughly through a long second orgasm, feeling Tashi’s body tighten beautifully around his cock, doing everything he could to hold out, himself. When she finally started to come down from it, she gave Art a small, approving smile. “All right. Now.”

Art had practiced this for many years, too, and it took only a few seconds before he obeyed, letting go and coming inside of Tashi as she’d demanded with a moan of pleasure and relief.

He stayed where he was for a minute, on top of Tashi, feeling her fingertips brushing up and down his spine, enjoying the closeness of their bodies. She pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, then more down his neck, and then she was mouthing at the surgical scars on Art’s shoulder. Art had to make an effort not to tense, to be perfectly still and good, keeping his breaths calm and giving no sign of his discomfort.

“We’re gonna fix this,” Tashi whispered in his ear. “Get your head straight again. Get you back.”

He hadn’t gone anywhere, part of Art wanted to remind her. But that would have been a lie, wouldn’t it?

Tashi patted his arm, and Art took the hint to roll off of her. She got up and stretched, giving him a peck before padding toward the bathroom to clean up. Art stared at the ceiling, mind beginning to drift in the unwanted direction it was always heading to these days.

He found himself looking up at the same spot through a layer of darkness half an hour later, back in his underwear and Tashi back in her nightgown, just in case Lily came into the room and crawled in next to her in the middle of the night. Tashi was in his arms, drifting off half on top of him while Art stroked her arm absentmindedly. She needn’t have worried about the thought of Patrick keeping him up. Art had other things on his mind, like trying to shove down this feeling, this horrible fucking feeling. It was always present, but when Art was with other people, he could pretend it wasn’t there. Now, however, it started up again, its tendrils slipping forth to curl around him and squeeze. And it was stupid, really, it was nothing. It was ungrateful of him. It was just… it was just that…

Art was just so fucking tired. Backwards and screwed up that this was the thought keeping him awake, but there it was. The fatigue had stalked him for years while he ignored it, hoping that it would go away if he didn’t look it in the eye. And then came the injury.

He would never forget how that event affected Tashi, the terror on her face when he’d collapsed to the ground and she’d come running, a funhouse mirror's reflection of a day eleven years prior. Tashi’s own nightmare had already come true once before, and Art ached for her, reliving it next to him in the hospital. The physical pain was exquisite as well, and his own fear piled on top of it all to sit on his chest, crushing the breath out of him: what would he be to Tashi, if he wasn’t a tennis player? What would she want with a slave who was useless to her? Yet despite it all, lying there, waiting for test results, there had also been the other thing, thin and fragile as a soap bubble: Relief. Hope. The thought that maybe he could rest, maybe he was done. Maybe it was over, finally, finally.

He could’ve dealt with the grueling schedule and the strict diet, the torn rotator cuff and the surgery and the endless hours of PT. He would have put his body through anything if it made his mistress happy, if it made Tashi happy. But it didn’t. It never would, Art knew that by now. The US Open, the career Grand Slam, it was a mirage. She owned him, his body was hers, his wins were hers, legally and officially. He’d given himself over to Tashi in every way he could think of. But what he couldn’t do was give her her own body back. If no win could ever truly be hers, then no win could ever be enough. Art could never be enough. And maybe now he could stop trying to be.

His bubble burst in the face of the good news: his surgeons’ triumph, a full recovery, his career not ended but merely postponed. And the exhaustion returned to him full-force, an old companion he’d known since the age of sixteen, draining and consuming him, making Art feel like he could disappear into it and be lost.

He couldn’t, of course. It wasn’t like before. Art had no chance to undereat or oversleep; he had not only Tashi but an entire team propping him up, relying on him. He didn’t hate himself, and there was no boogeyman threatening to hurt him this time. So he was a little tired, so what? Nothing was even really wrong.

And if it was…

Well, if it was… hadn’t Tashi promised to fix that? “Get his head straight, get him back.” That’s what she wanted. It wasn’t his place to decide what would make Tashi happy. Art just had to trust her, do as he was told, and everything would be fine.

Feeling Tashi's deep, even breaths against his skin, Art closed his eyes and told himself resolutely to go to sleep. It'd be fine. It’d be fine.

It would be fine.

Chapter Text

When Art graduated from Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy thirteen years ago, he was happy to leave the worst elements of The Game behind him. Fortunately, the world at large was not populated with spoiled boarding school children insulated from all consequences; most people preferred not to be arrested or sued and therefore did not walk around committing major property crimes. However, Art was famous and handsome and made for something of a tempting target, and people couldn’t seem to resist putting their hands on him. It was usually innocent enough, a fan touching his arm or shoulder, starry-eyed, when asking for an autograph or a selfie. Other times it wasn’t so innocent at all, but Art tried not to bother Tashi or her lawyers about it unless someone got especially brazen, attempting to slip their fingers under his clothes or something like that.

Sitting around in a small, public-but-deserted room where anyone could wander in, wearing only a towel around his waist, that was just asking for it. It was particularly so when Art was the only reason anyone was even here giving a bit of attention to this crappy little challenger. It was reckless and stupid, and Art knew better. But when Tashi suggested that he use the sauna after winning his semifinal match against Larsen, Art had practically begged to be allowed to go alone.

The team was great, really. Good at their jobs and good to Art, too. But being a star athlete and a slave put Art in an odd position: he was like a prizewinning racehorse who just happened to have the ability to speak. It was a bizarre thought, that under other circumstances, Art would be their boss. The dynamic could be a little strange, though Tashi was quick to get rid of anyone insecure enough to try to put Art in his place because of it. Yet nice as they were, sometimes it was hard to see Tashi’s employees as anything but even more people with intimate access to Art’s body. His nutritionist, Jeremy, decided what Art ate down to the calorie; their security guard, Andrew, had a habit of putting a hand on Art’s lower back and guiding him around; and though his physiotherapist had never been even slightly inappropriate with Art, for some reason Art’s skin tended to crawl when Ken stretched him out.

It was a good thing that they were all free– the idea of Tashi owning some stable of slaves like the Zweigs had made Art feel vaguely sick. But sometimes Art ached for mealtimes in the Zweigs’ summer home or nights in the Donaldsons’ attic with his grandmother, the informal parties he used to attend with other slaves when he was still in school. There was an ease in being around other people like him that he hadn’t experienced in years.

It seemed impossible that he could feel so overwhelmed and so isolated at the same time. Right now, though, Art was prepared to take the risk that he might have to blow a stranger if it meant getting five minutes to himself. He was sitting with a hand towel carefully positioned to conceal both his face and his collar, trying to enter the meditative state that Tashi wanted for him, but he knew there was nothing to stop some free asshole from coming into the sauna and harassing him.

And, naturally, some free asshole did.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Art pulled the towel off of his face, heart starting to pound even before he’d consciously placed the voice.

“If you win this thing tomorrow, what do you get?” Patrick stood in the doorway, completely naked but for a towel draped around his neck and a small, closed-lipped smile on his face. He shut the door behind him, and then Art was alone in a room with Patrick for the first time in eight years. On the rare occasion he and Patrick had been in the same city during that time, when Patrick actually qualified for one of the more significant tournaments, there hadn’t been time for this. Tashi expected Art to focus on opponents who were real threats, and Patrick would always blow out in the first few rounds, consistently proving that he wasn’t one.

Until now.

Art turned his gaze ahead of him to avoid looking at Patrick’s body, and he felt his own lips curving up without his consent. He responded airily, “About seven grand, I think. And this really nifty trophy.”

Patrick clicked his tongue, walking over to Art. “Well, that’s no fun,” he said, hitting Art’s arm with the backs of his fingers to make him look over. “Tashi didn’t offer you a deal this time?” Patrick placed an arm on the wall and his foot on the step next to Art so that his knee brushed Art’s thigh. Patrick was leaning over Art, boxing him in as well as putting his own dick on display. Art looked away from it with a touch of exasperation. Patrick wasn’t being intentionally aggressive, just flirting, Art knew, but he was not particularly in the mood for this sort of posturing.

“You assume I want to see you,” he said, voice dry.

Patrick shook his head, grinning now. “Who said anything about me?”

Art directed a pointed look down at Patrick’s groin, then up at his face.

Patrick let out a short laugh. “What? This is a sauna,” he said. He did move back a little, pulling the ladle out of the bucket nearby to pour more water over the hot rocks, and Art took the opportunity to shift out of the corner, preparing to leave. It didn’t matter whether or not he wanted to see Patrick, not when he had his orders from Tashi, Steer clear. But Patrick protested, “Art. Come on. Can we talk?”

The words I’m not supposed to talk to you were too humiliating for Art to speak out loud, so he didn’t. He also didn’t move to get up.

“Look, we’ve been here for a week, and we haven’t said two words to each other. It’s just…” Patrick walked to the other side of the room and settled below Art, lounging back with his arms spread on the upper bench. “It’s silly, man. It’s dramatic. I mean, hey, I get it. You have every reason to be angry with me and with Tashi. And you might belong to her, but I don’t see why you and I can’t talk things out like adults.”

Angry with Tashi? What the hell did that mean? Art sniffed, lacing his fingers together. “Nothing to talk about,” he said. “I’m not angry with anyone.”

Patrick glanced off to the side and said, with an air of mock-realization, “Huh.” He looked back at Art and nodded, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Course you’re not.”

Art rolled his eyes and said nothing.

“I mean, anger is an emotion,” Patrick went on, “and these days, every time I see you play, you seem more like… dead inside?”

“I’m fine, Patrick. I’m great, actually,” Art said, effectively needled against his will.

“Sure. That’s why your mistress brought you here to the Phil’s Tire Town Challenger,” Patrick agreed.

“And why are you here?” Art demanded. “Maybe you should worry about yourself. Do you realize how embarrassing it is that you are here right now?”

“Not quite as embarrassing as you being here. I mean, I live here. You’re the one slumming it with all the little people you’re better than.”

Art pretended to balk, touching his fingers to his collar. “Better than you, sir? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Patrick smiled. “Come on, don’t give me that. Hey, you know, I’ve been thinking about selling myself, too. What do you say, think Tashi would be interested in giving me a cushy gig like you’ve got?”

Art turned away to face forward, smiling tightly to hide the icy fury that had broken out inside of him at those words, spreading through his body and freezing him in places the steam couldn’t reach. Like it wasn’t shitty enough, taunting Art about his “cushy gig,” there was also the fact that “Patrick becomes desperate enough to sell himself” rang in at Number Two on the list of Art Donaldson’s Nightmare Scenarios, right after “Lily becomes desperate enough to sell herself.” (Such a thing happening to Tashi was unthinkable, so it did not make the list.) Of course, of course Patrick would have the balls to crack jokes about this. Of course. He was trying to get a rise out of Art, and it was working. This was exactly why Tashi had told him to stay away. Unbelievable that he was deliberately disobeying her for this childish bullshit.

Art shook his head, the same joyless smile fixed on his face. “I know what you’re trying to do right now,” he told Patrick, voice nearly sing-song.

“I’m not trying to do anything, Art,” Patrick said, still beaming. “This is a challenger. I don’t need to play mind games with you.”

“Right. You don’t give a shit,” Art returned sarcastically.

“I… hey, I didn’t say that,” Patrick argued.

Art bared his teeth in an unfriendly grin. “You know, you come in here, swinging your dick around like I’m supposed to be afraid of it–” And oh, boy, see if that one didn’t just slap the smug fucking smile right off of Patrick’s face.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, stung.

“Yeah?” Art closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the wall. “You’re so sure you never did?” For the first time since Patrick had entered the room, there was a long silence. When Art opened his eyes again, the towel around Patrick’s neck had finally relocated to his lap, and Patrick was staring off into space. Art continued, “I always tried to figure out what happened to you, but the more I’ve thought about it, the more I realize… it’s what didn’t happen. You never grew up.”

“You’re not grown, Art,” Patrick said. “You’re just numb, there’s a difference. The fuck did Tashi do to you?”

“Tashi taught me how to win,” Art snapped. “And I do. A lot.”

Patrick was looking down, watching his thumb rub against the bench, but his eyes lifted to meet Art’s when he said, “You’ve never beaten me.”

“And you’re proud of that, all of a sudden?” Art said derisively. “And anyway, so what? I haven’t beaten most of the guys that play at these things. This is a game about winning the points that matter.”

“I don’t matter?” Patrick asked him, so fucking wounded, and just like that, Art couldn’t go on. It was like he’d been sprinting at full-speed with a tether wrapped around him, and suddenly he’d run out of rope. There was a savage retort on the tip of his tongue – Not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the entire world – and some viciously cruel part of Art wanted to let it fly. At the same time, a pathetic part of him was collapsing to its knees at the look on Patrick’s face, wanting to take it all back, wanting to fucking grovel.

Art felt equally disgusted with each.

Instead of submitting to either, Art gave in to the other impulse he felt, standing up only to swoop down and reach for Patrick. He pulled him in for a long kiss that felt like instant relief, a muscle held in one position for far too long before finally relaxing. But when he felt Patrick’s palm on his cheek, Art placed a careful hand against the center of Patrick’s chest and pressed him back. Then Art two took steps backward and sank down, now on the lower step, even with Patrick.

Art was silent for a long time, staring at the door on the other side of the room, struggling with himself. When he finally looked back over, Patrick’s expression had shifted, layered with emotion Art couldn’t read. Art’s voice strained when he spoke. “I used to think I’d be with you forever.”

Patrick nodded slowly. Then, in a tone clearly intended to be light, he said, “Don’t feel bad. I’ve been with lots of people; none of them wanted to be with me forever. That’s not what I’m for.”

Art sighed, feeling more of his anger fleeing him, leaving behind only exhaustion. “That is not why I went to Tashi.”

“Fine. Why did you?”

“Do you even remember how bad shit was, back then? We were barely getting by half the time, and you didn’t trust me at all. You wouldn’t fucking touch me!” Art reminded him.

“I loved you,” Patrick said. “You just didn’t feel the same way.”

Art rubbed a hand over his face, feeling like this conversation had spiraled out of his control. “It wasn’t that simple for me.”

Patrick shrugged. “What’s complicated? You wanted to be with Tashi more than you wanted to be with me.”

“Don’t tell me what I wanted,” Art growled, and Patrick laughed in his face.

“Why, because you’re going to tell me what you want? That’d be a first.”

Art gritted his teeth, fed up. “Well, clearly you got what you wanted. You came here, wound me up, fucked with my head–”

Patrick’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “I– look, I didn’t mean to do that, okay, I swear. I wanted to come in here and wish you luck, Art.”

Art shook his head in agitation. “That makes no sense.”

“I wanted to say that I’m looking forward to it. And that I miss playing with you.”

“Yeah.” Art nodded several times, then stood up again. “Well, I can’t say I miss playing with you, Patrick. Maybe I’m just too old for games.” He slammed his hand against the door and walked out, thoroughly steamed.

***

Art was brushing his teeth when Tashi returned from putting Lily to bed. When Art wandered into the bathroom doorway, she turned around to look at him where he was leaning on the door jamb with his arms crossed. When he said nothing, she faced front again and went back to rubbing her expensive moisturizer into her legs.

She prompted him, “You’ve been edgy for hours. What is it?”

Art summoned his courage. He licked his lips and said, “I need to know why it matters.”

Over her shoulder, Tashi sent him an uncomprehending glance, so Art continued:

“Why does it matter whether I win tomorrow?”

Tashi gave him a brief, cool look. With her back to him, spreading lotion onto her arms, she said, “You tell me why it matters. You’re the professional competitor, Art.”

Art nodded and looked at the ground, fidgeting with his collar. He was unsurprised by the non-answer. It was pretty typical of any attempt at honest conversation he had with Tashi, though Art was well-aware that she was not the only guilty party.

Tashi got up, set the tub on her bedside table, and finally gave him her full attention. “You need a reason? I could tell you that you can fuck him again if you win tomorrow. I could tell you that I’ll punish you if you don’t. Which one do you need to hear?” Art didn’t respond, so she went on. “Seriously, if you’ve got something to say, you should go ahead and say it.”

Art hesitated before admitting, “It’s probably gonna make you angry.” Tashi frowned at him.

“You afraid of me now?” she asked, and Art smiled a little, not meeting her eye.

“He asked me that, too, once,” he said.

Tashi examined him for a moment, then sighed. She sat down on the bed. “This doesn’t work if you won’t talk to me. It can’t be about avoiding my judgment.”

Art nodded. “Okay.” He turned to the side so he wouldn’t have to see her face, fingers twitching helplessly. “It’s just… I can’t keep this up forever.”

“Why would that make me angry? You think I don’t know that? Every athlete has a shelf life. You’re thirty-one, for fuck’s sake.”

Annoyed, Art turned his head toward her sharply. “You–” know what I mean, he started to say, but the words died in his throat. It was true, Tashi didn’t look angry at all.

She looked more like… scared?

Jesus, she was. Tashi was scared. Of this, of what he might ask her for. Why, Art couldn’t be sure. It was possible that she was afraid because she thought Art would resent her if he asked to retire and she said no. But that didn’t sound like the Tashi he knew.

It was possible that she was afraid because she thought that if Art asked to retire, she would say yes.

Whatever the reason, her fear softened Art even as it frustrated him. Tashi said she wanted him to talk to her, but she sure didn’t act like it. “I’m playing for you, Tashi. I know that.”

A pained look flickered across Tashi’s face. “Where is this coming from? Why now?”

Art looked down again, body still angled away from her. “I’m tired,” he confessed. After a few seconds of silence, his lip twitched up into a sardonic half-smile. “And, um. I saw Patrick today.”

Tashi matched him with the wry look of her own. “And he got in your head.” She shook hers. “I should fucking kill him.” Then, firmly, “You can beat him.”

“What if I don’t?” Art said. “How are you gonna look at me if I still can’t beat Patrick Zweig?”

After a moment, Tashi held out a hand. “Come here,” she instructed him. Art took a couple steps toward her and then practically dove in the rest of the way, positioning himself beneath her, top half sliding against the mattress. He hadn’t even realized how much he was craving contact, the comfort of her touch. Tashi gazed into his eyes. “He doesn’t own you anymore.”

Art stared back intently. “You do.”

Tashi nodded. “Damn right.” Her fingers came up to curl into his collar, and she used it to pull him into a kiss that quickly deepened, each of them putting more feeling into it than they were able to voice. Art shifted, shaping his body around Tashi’s as she stroked the back of his neck. Finally, she drew back enough to whisper, “Tell me what’s going to help you.”

Art leaned his forehead against hers, breaths mingling. “Let me do something for you.”

Tashi pulled back a little further, searching his face. “You’re sure that’s what you need?”

“Tashi,” Art said. “Please.”

There was a pause. Then Tashi murmured, “Alright.” Art moved to allow her to take her place at the head of the bed, legs parted for him. He settled between them, pushing the lacy hem of her nightgown up her thighs. As he lowered his head and gave the first, light lick across her, he heard Tashi sigh.

If there was any area in which Art was confident in his abilities, it wasn’t tennis, it was this. There had been a months-long period after Lily was born when Tashi’s sex drive had come back online but oral was all that she could tolerate. During that time, Art had developed muscles in his lips and tongue heretofore unknown to mankind (or at least, he thought, unknown to anyone other than lesbians over the age of forty). He would do this for hours if she let him, until Tashi’s orgasms started to slide together and became one long, continuous climax.

She didn’t, this time. After perhaps twenty minutes, Tashi tugged Art lightly up by his hair. Then she trailed a hand down to Art’s groin, maybe so that he could fuck her, only she found him soft. Art took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He slipped his own hand down into his pajama bottoms. “I can–”

“Hey,” Tashi interrupted him, brow furrowed. “No. We don’t need to do that. We’re gonna do something for you now.”

Art sat back, expecting her to go down on him, but she didn’t. Instead, Tashi put a light hand on his head and eased him back down toward the mattress. He gave her a puzzled look as he went, allowing her to guide him so that his head was resting on her thigh. Then Tashi began gently scratching the short hairs on the back of his head with the tips of her fingers.

Oh, Art thought, cradled in Tashi’s lap, feeling the stress draining out of him, leaving quietude in its wake. Tashi really did know him better than he knew himself, sometimes. And he was reminded of something, something that Tashi had said to him a long time ago… what was it…?

He laid there for a few minutes, lulled into a near-stupor by the motions of Tashi’s hand, until he finally remembered. It was his first night alone with Tashi after his purchase, the first time they’d had sex without Patrick also present, Tashi’s collar brand-new around Art’s neck. You can always tell me to stop, Tashi had said to him. I want you to tell me to stop.

Art sighed against Tashi’s skin, wishing everything wasn’t so goddamn complicated. He remembered something else Tashi had said that very same day, too, and in his haze, he asked the question on his mind.

“Tashi,” he said, and she hummed back to show she was listening. “You said– you said I’m not just a racket and a dick, so then… what am I for? Why am I here?”

Tashi’s fingers stopped in their movements for a second, and she let out a short, uncomfortable laugh. “'Why are you here?' What am I, Jesus?”

“Yeah,” Art agreed baldly. Tashi was his owner, his coach, the mother of his child, and the center of his world. She might as well have been.

Silence resumed, as did the stroking of his hair. Tashi didn’t have an answer for him, but Art hadn’t really expected her to. He tilted his head to look up at her just long enough to meet her eye, to see her stricken, saddened face. Just as earlier, he felt twin reactions, a pang of satisfaction at landing a blow paired with the impulse to walk it back, to reassure her that he knew his place in her life, that all was well.

He turned his face from Tashi and pushed both feelings away. The question didn’t matter, anyway. Art would do what he’d always done, which was accept what he was given.

They stayed like that for some time, Tashi holding Art there against her body, at least until he fell asleep.

***

When Art awoke shortly after midnight, the room was dark, and he was alone, head resting on a pillow in place of Tashi’s thigh. Art sat up, yawned, and stretched, looking around for some sign of Tashi.

None appeared. Not in the bedroom, nor the bathroom, nor the living room. Finally, Art found himself at the frosted glass double doors to the room where Lily was sleeping, watching the green stars of light projected by her lamp rotating past, around and around in slow circles. The door was ajar, but he couldn't quite see Lily from where he was.

Art wavered. He didn’t want to disturb her. But either Tashi was inside or she’d left Lily in his care, in which case it wouldn’t hurt to look in on her, make sure she was alright. He made himself push open the door, slowly.

Lily was fine, of course, sleeping peacefully on her stomach, her new favorite stuffed peach tucked under her body, the previous favorite giraffe just nearby. She was better than fine. She was perfect.

He smiled, looking at her. It made Art wish powerfully that he could lie down next to her, fall asleep with the warmth of her little body on his side. Watching Lily sleep always reminded him of her infancy, having hushed conversations about tennis with Tashi while she walked back and forth, back and forth, because Lily would wake up screaming the second Tashi put her down. He could also remember a few precious times when he’d been the one pacing the floors with the baby, until Tashi lost her patience with him failing to focus on tennis and took Lily back or passed her over to her grandmother or an assistant or whomever else was around. Art’s smile faded from his lips as he recalled a particular night.

Despite her occasional bouts of insomnia, Tashi was used to the athlete’s schedule she’d kept her whole life, up at five in the morning after a full night of sleep. But Lily was fussy, and the change was hard on Tashi, especially because she wanted Art to stay in fighting form and therefore refused to let him take turns with the late-night feedings. But when Art woke at two in the morning to find Lily wailing over the baby monitor and poor Tashi so exhausted she was actually sleeping through it, he decided she needed at least one session of uninterrupted rest. He reached over, turned the monitor off, and headed down the hall.

By bouncing her gently and keeping up a soothing patter of talk, Art managed to get Lily’s cries down to a stream of less-audible yet heartbreakingly piteous whimpers for long enough to change her diaper and warm a bottle from the refrigerator. As they settled into a rocking chair next to her crib, Lily accepted the bottle and finally quieted. Art didn’t turn on a light, just let his eyes adjust to the glow of the nightlight plugged into the wall until he could properly make out her features. Her deep brown eyes, huge in her little face, were locked onto his. One of her tiny hands went to the bottle and the other moved to hold his much larger one, exploring the texture of his calluses with curiosity.

Then the door opened. Tashi’s mother jumped a little at the entrance, putting a hand on her chest. “Oh! Art, you startled me. I was expecting Tashi,” Mrs. Duncan said, pitching her voice low.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am. I just wanted to let her sleep for once,” Art whispered back.

“Well, that is very sweet of you to help out, but you don’t have to do that. I know how hard your mistress works you, and I’m sure she’ll have you up bright and early in a few hours. You can give the baby to me now.” Mrs. Duncan stepped forward and held out her arms expectantly.

For a beat, Art stayed where he was, frozen in the rocking chair. He glanced down at Lily, her serious gaze still on him, her fingers playing with the bandage on his pinky. Then he looked back up at Mrs. Duncan, the politely distant smile on her face. I am not "sweet," Art wanted to snarl at her, I am not "helping out." I am her fucking father.

He said no such thing, of course. “Thank you, ma’am,” Art answered instead. He stood up carefully to avoid jostling Lily, and he handed her over to her grandmother, and he left the nursery without looking backwards, no matter how much he wanted to.

Now, watching Lily’s back in her strawberry-patterned pajamas rising and falling with her breaths, Art bit his lip. He felt an incredible pull to go to her, like a hook behind his navel. But that wasn’t for him, he knew. Art knew better than anyone that being someone’s biological father didn’t actually make you their dad. He stepped back and shut the door as quietly as he could, and he returned to the place where he belonged, to his mistress’s bed, cold and empty though it was.

Once there, however, Art knew within minutes that trying to fall asleep was useless. He sat back up and turned on a light. Then he went to the closet and emerged with the bag that had gone with him everywhere he went since he was twelve years old. The yellow backpack was in fairly good shape, considering its age and its extensive travels. Among a few other items, it still contained its three original treasures, and Art spread these out on the floor in front of him now.

His grandma’s handkerchief had lost any trace of scent many years ago, but Art lifted it to his nose briefly anyway before he unfolded it on his thigh and began tracing the snowflakes stitched into the fabric with his fingertip. His grandmother hadn’t quite lived long enough to see him become a celebrity, and Art could hardly fathom her reaction to it if she had. She’d been so proud just watching him lose to Patrick all those years ago. Then:

The knitted dog really did kind of look more like a sheep, Art thought. When Lily was born, it had crossed Art’s mind that he should give it to her. It was, in fact, the only thing that Art could have given to her. But then he had looked around at the army of perfect toys that already crowded Lily’s nursery, store-bought and shiny-new, and he couldn’t do it. What chance was there that Lily would even notice it, let alone appreciate it? And lastly:

The picture of his mother and grandmother no longer lived on its own in the backpack. Instead it was held in a folder which Art had received from Kaylee along with his grandmother’s wooden cross. The left-hand pocket stored it and a small number of other photographs of Art’s family that made up his grandmother’s collection: pictures of him and his mom and aunts and uncles and even one of the man Art knew to be his grandfather. Kaylee had made some further additions, snapshots of her and Art together at the park or the lake or just at home, some also including his grandmother. One, which showed Mr. Donaldson standing between the two children with a hand on Art’s back, made Art’s stomach churn to look at, though he could never bring himself to throw it away. Kaylee’s mother was not depicted in these photos, though whether that was by chance or Kaylee’s tactful exclusion, Art didn’t know.

Setting these aside, Art turned to the right-hand side of the folder, which stored its original contents, Patrick’s gift for Art’s grandmother. Some of these were pictures of Art alone, looking gangly and awkward, no doubt taken by Patrick himself, as no one else would have bothered. Many, though, showed him and Patrick together, arms around each other or holding trophies or making stupid teenage boy faces at the camera like the little troglodytes they’d been. They certainly seemed happy, if you went based off of those pictures. And Art had been, he thought, a lot of the time, until he wasn’t, until things between them collapsed under the weight of years of lying to Patrick and hiding things from him and failed attempts to just be good. Maybe that’s what was wrong with him and Tashi. Maybe there was some kind of time limit. Maybe she’d be happier if she sold Art and moved on. Though, on second thought, considering how Patrick seemed, selling Art probably wasn’t good enough. Maybe he had already ruined Tashi’s chances for happiness.

“Hey,” came a voice from behind him. Art turned around. Tashi was back, now wearing one of Art’s white T-shirts over her nightgown. Glancing down at the pictures of Patrick scattered around him, she frowned. Art could imagine. Probably not a great strategy, getting all nostalgic about your opponent the night before a match. But Tashi hadn’t been here to prevent it, and for once Art couldn’t bring himself to mind her disapproval. “Come to bed. You should be sleeping. We both should.”

"Okay." He turned from her and began tidying up the objects around him, putting them away. “Did you go for a walk?” he asked absently.

Tashi paused, then explained, “Too windy. I called a cab and drove around for a while. Needed to clear my head.”

“And are things clearer, now?” Art tucked the folder into his bag and zipped it up.

“Some things,” Tashi allowed. Her eyes followed Art as he moved toward the closet to put the backpack away. Then she added, “You are going to beat him tomorrow.”

“Yeah? Think so?” Art said neutrally.

Tashi walked past him into the bathroom, and Art tilted his head as he caught a whiff of… something. Something out of place but not unfamiliar. He felt sure he knew what it was; then she moved away from him, and it was gone. He almost thought Tashi would shut the door without answering him, but she spoke just before it closed.

“I know it.”

Chapter Text

The second the door closed behind them, Patrick and Art had their hands on each other, their mouths on each other, fumbling like they were teenagers or maybe more like they were blind drunk, staggering into the fortunately empty room.

Art slammed Patrick up against a locker, pulling away from his lips to frantically lick the drying sweat off of his neck, squeezing his ass.

“God, I want you right now,” Patrick moaned, rucking Art’s shirt up in return to rub his hands over Art’s bare skin.

“Yeah?” Art said, returning his mouth to Patrick’s for a quick but deep kiss. “Guess that’s too bad.” He made his way over to Patrick’s ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth and scraping his teeth over it.

“Why… why’s that?” Patrick asked him, one hand coming up to bury itself in Art’s hair.

“Because you can’t have me right now,” Art whispered into his ear. He gave it one more nip before returning to Patrick’s neck, now laving attention on the other side, biting and sucking and leaving marks as he went.

Patrick dropped his hands to Art’s ass and pressed their hips together, grinding against him. “Kinda seems like I can?” he said.

“Nope,” Art answered. He sucked a kiss to the underside of Patrick’s jaw before going back to his lips, tongues pressing against one another. He pulled back just enough to murmur, “You’re gonna have to wait.”

“Wait for what?” Patrick got out between kisses.

“Wait for Tashi,” Art replied, and Patrick’s head tipped back and hit the locker behind him with a bang. He made a noise that was part-laughter, part-groan.

“You’re not serious,” he complained.

Art smiled and gave him one more kiss, a sweet press of the lips, completely out of line with the ones that came before it. “‘As a heart attack, baby,’” he said. Patrick tilted his head back down to give him a half-hearted glare.

“So call her and tell her to get her ass in here already,” Patrick whined.

Art gave Patrick’s thigh a swat, then stepped away from him to remove his own shirt and kick off his shoes. “Or we could do what we came in here to do and clean up, you animal.”

“We can multi-task!” Patrick protested weakly. Art spared him a condescending look over his shoulder, opening the locker he’d used earlier to retrieve his body wash and shampoo before walking toward the showers. Patrick trailed him, pulling off clothing and clearly brooding. His expression shifted when Art’s shorts came down. Sounding fascinated but slightly choked, he said, “Um, Art? What the fuck underwear are you wearing?” Art rolled his eyes and otherwise ignored him, taking those off, as well, and turning on one of the showers.

“Get the tape, would you?” he requested. Patrick grumbled but obeyed, peeling it off of Art’s shoulders rather roughly. His movements slowed, however, when he reached Art’s neck, and he gently extracted the last of the tape from where it had started to curl around Art’s collar. A small smile came to Art’s lips. Casually, he said, “You want to get that, too?”

Patrick hesitated before muttering, “Yeah, okay.” His hands came back up, and he unbuckled Art’s collar with the same delicacy. Unlike the tape, which he had tossed onto the floor, he placed the collar carefully on a hook next to them. Art turned and gave him a knowing glance. “Oh, shut up,” Patrick said. They stepped under the spray.

The two of them did, in fact, multi-task, continuing to make out intermittently, reaching out and washing one another’s bodies as an excuse to feel each other up.

“You’re sure you don’t wanna…?” Patrick goaded Art at one point, shooting his hard-on an amused look.

“We’re waiting for Tashi,” Art told him decisively.

Which wasn’t to say that Art wasn’t angry. He was. He asked Tashi for so fucking little, and she’d still gone behind his back to sneak off and fuck Patrick, if Patrick was telling the truth with that “signal” of his, still kept it a secret from him for whatever bullshit reason. Maybe because she thought he couldn’t handle it? Or maybe because she respected him so little that she thought her promises to him meant nothing?

He wasn’t only angry with Tashi, though. How could he be? When he’d seen her face in the stands, and she had been so excited, so purely happy to be watching some good fucking tennis. When she’d wrapped her arms around his sweaty body and whooped in his ear, elated. When she’d absolutely glowed during their joint interview with ESPN (and Jesus, ESPN at a challenger, how ridiculous) and sounded every bit as proud of him for beating his former master as she would have been if he’d finally clinched the goddamn US Open. Seeing her look so giddy and joyful and young went a long way towards softening Art up.

When they had dried off and dressed in fresh clothes, Art pressed his room key into Patrick’s hand.

“You’ll meet us there?” he said. Lily would be in her grandmother’s room until Tashi came to get her, leaving the three of them free to… catch up.

Patrick looked away, blowing out a deep breath and feigning indecision. “I don’t know… should probably think about getting on the road… important shit to do, you know…” Art cut this blatant nonsense off with another long kiss, and when he came away, Patrick was smiling.

“You don’t have shit to do,” Art said.

Patrick defended himself: “I have shit!”

“You don’t have shit,” Art repeated firmly.

“I… okay, I don’t have shit,” Patrick admitted. “So I guess I’ll think about meeting you there.”

“Uh-huh,” Art responded with an unimpressed look, and after a final peck, he hitched his bag over his shoulder and headed for the exit, for Tashi, for the next part of all three of their lives.

***

Patrick was standing in their bedroom when Art and Tashi arrived, poking through the objects on Tashi’s bedside table. Tashi's face read annoyance already as she closed the bedroom door.

“So,” Patrick said, “did we show you something decent this time?”

“It was alright,” she answered coolly, to Patrick’s obvious entertainment.

“And what did we win, then?”

Tashi cocked her head, giving him a contemplative look. “I haven’t decided yet.” She turned to Art. “Tell me what you think we should do with him.”

Art glanced over at Patrick, and all of a sudden he could only see Patrick’s much-younger face leaning in toward him to hiss, I’d let her fuck me with a racket. He smirked at Patrick, whose face was now showing hunger and perhaps a bit of uncertainty. That was an idea for another time, possibly. Instead, Art thought it over for just a moment before putting his lips to Tashi’s ear and whispering his real plan. When he drew back, she looked pleased.

“Good boy,” Tashi purred, stroking his cheek with the back of her fingers, and a little shudder ran through Art’s body as the words went directly to his dick. She kissed him, brief but open-mouthed and wet. “Take off your clothes, both of you.” Then she took a step back and turned, walking toward the bathroom. Tashi paused before she disappeared, addressing Patrick. “Sit up at the head of the bed. You can get started without me,” she added to Art. The bathroom door shut behind her with a soft snick.

There was a brief stillness, Patrick and Art staring at each other, before Art pulled his shirt over his head and Patrick hastened to follow. Once they were both stripped naked, they were drawn together helplessly, mouths once again finding one another’s in needy kisses. Art took Patrick’s face in his hands while one of Patrick’s came up to the back of Art’s neck and the other groped his ass and stroked the back of his thigh. Tongues still sliding against one another, Art pulled Patrick down to the bed as Tashi had instructed, arranging him in the middle so he was sitting up against the pillows, Art kneeling over him. Then Art ducked his head and nudged Patrick’s chin up so he could kiss his throat.

“You gonna tell me what we’re doing right now?” Patrick asked him, head tipped back.

“No,” Art murmured, “but I don't think you'll be waiting long to find out.” As he moved his lips over to Patrick’s collarbone and shoulder, he dropped a hand down to Patrick’s cock which was, unsurprisingly, most of the way hard already. Patrick took in a sharp breath at the sudden sensation and tried to return the gesture, reaching out and wrapping his hand around Art only for Art to guide him away with a gentle, discouraging touch. “Not yet, okay?” Art said before closing his lips around Patrick’s nipple and sucking, feeling Patrick’s dick fill out the rest of the way in his hand.

Art kept working his way down Patrick’s torso with his lips and tongue, licking the muscles of his abs while he stroked Patrick’s cock lightly and Patrick’s hands roamed over his neck, his shoulders, his back. Finally, now on all-fours, Art pressed a wet kiss to the tip of Patrick’s cock, then extended his tongue to work at the slit there. Patrick’s penis twitched gratifyingly with every swipe. He swirled his tongue around the head of it.

“This is what you wanted, huh? Eight years, and the first thing you want is my dick in your mouth?” Patrick’s pupils were wide, his face greedy.

“That’s part of it,” Art agreed, applying teasing little kitten-licks to the sensitive underside of Patrick’s head.

“Fucking slut,” Patrick grinned, sliding a hand into Art’s hair. His touch made for a tender contrast to the hard words. Art just smirked up at him. Patrick didn’t know the half of it, but he would, and soon. Then Art dropped his head down to suck Patrick’s cock into his mouth for the first time, drawing a gasp out of Patrick.

Art kept working even when he heard the bathroom door open, bobbing his head and applying light suction. He did look up, however, when Patrick spoke, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.

“Whoa! Uh. Hey, just, um…” Patrick gave Art’s hair a few tugs, not roughly but urgently. Art pulled off of him and looked around at the cause of Patrick’s concern.

Holy shit, Tashi looked amazing like this, but then, she always did. Her favorite harness was hugging her ass perfectly as she sauntered up to him, Art’s favorite toy jutting out from the center of it. Art licked his lips. If he wasn’t already occupied, he’d want to put his mouth there, place a hand on her ass while the other reached up to play with the nipple of one of her round, gorgeous tits.

Instead he turned back to Patrick’s slightly worried expression. “It’s okay,” Art assured him. And then he dropped his head back down and took as much of Patrick into his mouth as he could in one go, making Patrick release a desperate torrent of curse words and shove a hand back into his hair. He could feel Tashi’s free hand, the one not holding their lube, settle onto his hip, stroking his flank.

“Jesus, Tashi, can he even take that?” Patrick breathed.

Tashi laughed. “What do you think, Art? Can you take it?” Art felt the head of the toy teasing at his entrance, lube-slick but sizable, and he relaxed against it as it pressed inside of him, a practiced motion. He moaned a little around Patrick’s cock.

When Tashi first suggested they try this, fairly early on in her ownership of Art, it was for his benefit more than her own. She thought, quite reasonably, that Art might’ve missed it after so many years of having sex with another man. And Art, still doing his best to be honest with Tashi whenever he could, had told her the truth. He didn’t give her the details, the “Patrick’s father” of it all, but he said enough that Tashi got the picture, and, of course, she backed off of the idea right away. But then Art had explained to her his unhappiness that he couldn’t do it, that this act seemed to have been ruined for him permanently, and, well, Tashi had proven as determined a coach in this as in anything else.

“Fuck,” Patrick said reverently. Fully seated inside of Art, Tashi turned on the vibrations, and Art cried out again, louder now, and pressed his hips back against her.

For a while no one spoke, and Art let himself focus on sensation: Tashi’s hips rocking against his ass, the rubbing and vibrations inside of him, Patrick heavy on his tongue, the sounds of Tashi and Patrick kissing behind his head. The bliss built up on him slowly before reaching a crescendo, waves of pleasure radiating out through his limbs as Art gave a long, throaty moan.

“Did he– did he just fucking come like that?” Patrick asked Tashi, awed.

Tashi reached underneath Art’s body, trailing her fingertips lightly over his erection. “Mm. Dry, maybe,” she offered. “He can do that a few times if I fuck him for long enough.”

Patrick groaned. “That is the hottest thing I’ve ever fucking heard,” he said. All along Patrick’s hips had been twitching as he tried to hold back from thrusting into Art’s mouth. Now he stopped resisting, fucking Art’s mouth slowly but deeply, making Art’s eyes water a bit. Art could taste pre-cum, thicker on his tongue, and he knew Patrick was close. He looked up, catching Patrick’s gaze and staring at him, watching Patrick watch him back, knowing what he looked like: exactly what Patrick had accused him of being. Patrick moaned as he finally came, shutting his eyes and throwing his head back. Art choked a bit, out of practice with this part for over nine years, after all, but he eventually got himself under control enough to swallow. Patrick’s body jerked one more time, then he moved back and let his softening cock slide out of Art’s mouth.

“You good?” Patrick asked him, and Art nodded, jaw aching some but otherwise, yes, feeling very, very fucking good.

Tashi ran a hand down his back. “You ready to come for real, now?”

Art turned his head to look at her, eyes wet. “Please.”

“Touch him,” Tashi ordered Patrick, and Art whimpered when he felt the vibrations kick up to a higher setting, Tashi fucking him harder now.

Patrick dropped to his knees on the floor next to the bed, reaching out with both hands so he could stroke Art’s neglected cock and cup his balls, kissing Art at the same time, swallowing his moans. Art came hard over Patrick’s hand, spilling and spilling and spilling for what seemed like an impossibly long time.

He pushed Patrick away so he could get out, “Tashi, Tashi, please, I can’t…!” The buzzing inside of him cut to an abrupt halt, and Tashi’s hips slowed and then stilled.

“Okay, you’re okay,” she whispered, petting Art’s back again, and she eased the toy out of him carefully until it finally popped free.

Art collapsed onto the bed, just managing to roll onto his back in order to keep from dirtying the sheets anymore than he already had (though they were a lost cause, seeing as Patrick had immediately wiped his cum-covered hand on them). He watched, feeling dazed, as Patrick yanked Tashi forward by the arm, shoving the damp fabric of the harness out of the way to push two fingers inside of her and his thumb against her clit, fingering her roughly and making her gasp. She raked her fingernails down his back as she trembled through her orgasm, body only held up by Patrick’s arm around her waist. Art’s dick gave a spirited little twitch at the sight of them.

Art stayed where he was, pliant, while both of their hands cleaned him up and then while Patrick maneuvered him onto his side so that he could seal himself against Art’s back. Tashi laid down on the other side of him, letting Art wrap his arms around her and kiss her gently. He felt Patrick’s lips pressing against his neck and shoulders, too.

For a few minutes there was quiet, and Art basked in the incredible rightness of being pressed between Patrick and Tashi’s bodies, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in twelve years. Even then he hadn’t known to appreciate it like he did now, too busy being consumed by jealousy and worry to enjoy it properly. He stroked Tashi’s back, hand drawing senseless patterns across her skin. Patrick's right arm held Art to his chest, and his left arm was wedged between pillows so he could rub Art’s scalp with his fingertips.

“I hate your hair like this,” Patrick commented idly into his ear. “You should grow it out again.”

“Tashi likes it this way,” Art replied.

“Yeah, well, Tashi should grow out some taste, too.” Not looking terribly offended, Tashi gave Patrick the finger over Art’s shoulder.

“You’re just jealous that he likes my dick better than yours,” she retorted.

Patrick spluttered for a few moments. “He does not!”

A pause.

Art scrunched his face into a silly mock-grimace, earning him a grin from Tashi. “I mean, Tashi’s dick does vibrate, though,” Art said sensibly.

“Bigger than yours, too,” Tashi added.

“Oh, everyone’s a fucking critic!” Patrick griped, and he rolled Art onto his back so he could bury his face in Art’s armpit, where Art could feel him smiling. Art petted his hair in consolation. After a minute or so passed, Art looked down at the back of his head, eyebrows raised.

“You planning on coming out of there anytime soon, buddy?” he asked.

“No,” Patrick said, muffled and a little sulky. “I live here now.”

“In my armpit?” Art shrugged. “Interesting choice.”

On his other side, Tashi lifted his free arm and snuggled down underneath it. She considered her position. “Not bad. I guess living in your armpit beats prostitution.” Patrick chuckled a bit and returned Tashi’s middle finger without raising his head.

Art’s lip quirked, and he gave Tashi a bemused look. “What?” He shook his head, not getting the joke.

Tashi rolled her eyes. “Patrick couldn’t afford a fucking hotel during the tournament, so he’s been whoring himself so he’d have a place to sleep that wasn’t his car.” She spoke as if she found this droll, if rather pathetic, and not all like she was aware that she had just rung Art’s entire being like a gong.

Patrick, having more context on the matter, was a little quicker to notice. He felt Art’s body stiffen up and finally lifted his head, already on the defensive. “No, just– wait.”

Art sat up on the bed, withdrawing his arm from around Tashi and spitting, “What the fuck, Patrick?”

Patrick attempted a weak half-smile and raised a hand, trying to placate him. “Art, seriously, it’s not that big of a deal, okay?”

“It was a big deal,” Art fumed. “It was a big deal when it was me!” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tashi’s face turning back and forth between them, once again observing a tennis match, although not appearing to be having nearly as much fun this time around.

“Listen, it’s not– Tashi’s just exaggerating, okay, I’m not literally prostituting myself, there’s no money changing hands–”

“Oh, was that the problem?” Art said scathingly. “The exchange of currency? If only I’d known that we could’ve just used the barter system, maybe you wouldn’t have had to fucking sell me!”

“What?” Patrick looked completely bowled over, mouth agape. He stepped down off of the bed. “What the fuck are you talking about? What does one thing have to do with the other? I sold you because you fucking wanted me to!”

“Don’t tell me what I wanted!” Art thundered, lunging closer to him. Patrick stared at him for a second. When he spoke again, it was through gritted teeth.

“You have never, not once, told me what you wanted, Art. Even then! Even then, you went and told Tashi behind my fucking back, let her spring it on me in that hotel room, ‘Surprise, the love of your life wants nothing to fucking do with you!’”

“I told you why I did that, Patrick. Everything was going to shit, and you were so fucking paranoid, and you wouldn’t let me do anything to help!”

“Like, like what, Art? Like whoring you out? That’s what I should’ve done? That makes me the bad guy here, because I’d rather see you with Tashi than fucking strangers for money?”

Art laughed joylessly. “Am I insane?” He turned to Tashi, whose face was alarmed. “Am I just going fucking nuts?” He whipped back toward Patrick. “You’d rather get rid of the supposed ‘love of your life’ than let me take care of you, even when I was fucking begging you to, but when it’s you fucking strangers for a roof over your head, all of the sudden it’s fine? It’s ‘no big deal,’ and I just shouldn’t give a shit? Fucking explain it to me! Please. Please.”

“Okay!” Tashi cut in. “Okay. It wasn’t what either one of you wanted. You both thought it was your job to protect each other, and you both thought the other one was better off without you. You’re self-sacrificing morons, that much is fucking obvious. But Art, come on. Of course it’s different for him. It’s different because he is deeply and pathetically in love with you.”

“Oh, fuck off, Tashi,” Patrick snapped. “Like you’re not.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Finally, Art broke it, bewildered. “What? Like Tashi’s not what?”

“It’s just a bit rich, coming from her. If anyone’s pathetic over him, it’s you,” Patrick said, addressing the latter half to Tashi.

Art shook his head. “Patrick, it’s not– it’s not like that, with me and Tashi. We just understand each other. She’s not, she doesn’t…” he trailed off at Patrick's expression.

Patrick was staring at them, agog, eyes darting from Art to Tashi and back. “No. No fucking way. There’s no way he doesn’t know. There’s no way you’ve just… never told him?” Patrick laughed disbelievingly. “Jesus, Tashi. That’s just so fucking sad. God, it’s worse than I knew. You really are pathetic.”

“Hey!” Art objected hotly. “Lay the hell off.”

He didn’t. “I knew you were a fucking hypocrite – I mean, I was brainwashed about this shit since birth, I don’t know what your fuckin’ excuse is – I just didn’t realize you were a goddamn coward, too.”

Tashi was oddly silent at his back, so Art spoke up instead. “What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“Art,” Patrick said patiently. “She’s in love with you. And she’s too much of a pussy to tell you because– well, you remember what she said to me, don’t you? She’s scared to lose her little tennis-playing marionette.”

“Fuck you,” Tashi snarled, and when Art finally turned to her, he was poleaxed by the look on her face. Tashi looked murderous, ready to rip Patrick into gory pieces. It was an expression that would have, if directed at Art, reduced him to a gelatinous puddle. But that wasn’t the part that stopped him dead.

Tashi was also crying. Fat tears were bubbling out of her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. Art stared at her, lips parted.

“Oh, was that not it?” Patrick prodded, smiling viciously. “Maybe you’re just, what, afraid he’ll leave you? God, I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

“Stop it,” Art said without looking at him, starting to feel sick and vaguely dizzy. He finally ripped his eyes away from Tashi’s face, and he climbed off of the bed, backing away from both of them toward the door. “You’re the one who told me she wasn’t in love with me.”

“Uh, yeah. Because she wasn’t.” Patrick was looking at Art like he was slow. “Eight fucking years ago. But what do I know? Maybe she’s still not. Cause ‘if you loved him, you would’ve freed him,’ right?” he asked Tashi, voice caustic.

“What makes you think I want someone to free me?” Art asked from the corner of the room, eyes lowered. His voice was quiet, but he had clearly garnered both of their attention regardless, based on the way they were staring at him. “What makes you think I want someone to be in love with me?”

Tashi moved closer to him, kneeling near the end of the bed. Voice roughened by tears, she asked, “What do you want?”

“Why does it matter?” Art said thinly, nearly begging.

She sniffed and wiped her face. “I told you, didn’t I? Back when we first met? We want to do what you want. Both of us do.” Next to Tashi, Patrick nodded at him, face serious.

Art looked back and forth between them, mind blank, stomach revolting. He bent down to snatch his clothes off of the floor and began pulling them on. “I… I can’t do this. I don’t know how to do this.”

“Art,” Tashi said, still sounding broken, “don’t go.”

An order from his mistress, but one he couldn’t even think about obeying. Even so, Art stopped and reached for her, kissing her first on the lips, then on the forehead. “I just need some time.”

Tashi’s eyes roved over his face. Then: “Okay,” she allowed.

Art drew back. He turned to Patrick. “You done being fucking horrible, now?” Patrick pressed his lips together and nodded, and Art awarded him a kiss, too.

The room was ghostly quiet while he finished dressing himself.

“I’ll be back. Don’t kill each other while I’m gone,” Art instructed them both, and with that he walked out of the room. Out in the hall, Art eschewed the elevator for the stairs, wanting the walk, wanting to avoid coming across anyone else, wanting... shit, Art didn’t know what, but it sure the fuck looked like he needed to figure it out fast.