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Art, August 10. 2019
He woke up feeling more tired than when he went to sleep, if that was even possible. His room was cold, beyond freezing. He’d always felt that hotel rooms carried an extra sense of frigidity. He clenched his jaw tightly before slowly bringing his feet to the side of the bed, fuck this fucking city, fuck every fucking city. His phone soon rang once more, a ringtone his coach had demanded Art have for him only since he wasn’t one to answer his phone.
“Hello?” He spoke into the phone, voice crackly and rough from a night of (probably mouth-breathing filled) sleep.
“Jesus, you sound rough,” Mark, ever blunt, answered.
“Good morning to you, too,” he coughed. He could practically hear Mark roll his eyes.
“Just here to remind you, I want you to have the banana, toast, and electrolytes now. And get your electrolytes and gel ready for the game.” Art already had a foot in his kitchenette for the week.
“Where would I be without your post-its and calls?” Art snarked, peeling the sticky note off the banana, bread, gels, and dripdrop that held the exact same instructions.
“Not in Cincinnati,” Mark snarked back.
“Fucking hate this city,” Art mumbled around his mouthful of banana, Mark now on speaker as he put his whole wheat bread into the toaster.
“I know, I know, but our goal is to stay in this city for now,” Mark retorted. Art just sighed. This was his first real match back without his grandma. He’d taken a few months off after her death, but quickly discovered the time alone with his own thoughts only dug the hole deeper. He needed tennis, even if it was in Cincinnati. Normally, he’d wake up feeling somewhat well-rested and would be greeted with a barrage of texts from his grandmother.
You’re going to do amazing, Artie! Love you! – Grandma
Game face on! – Grandma
Get some good sleep, big day tomorrow. Love you! – Grandma
She’d leave voicemails, too, his inbox was full, but he didn’t have the heart to delete hers to make space for any others. It’s not like he really had anyone other than Mark calling him anyway, so it was never much of an issue. His toast popped out of the toaster, breaking his attention away from his mini pity party. He grabbed it out of the toaster, smearing on the natural peanut butter with a small frown. Art didn’t listen to the details or ask questions; he just did. Case in point, Mark was still talking.
“–gainst some teenager today,” he finished.
“Sorry, missed all of that,” Art sheepishly explained. Mark sighed.
“You’re playing against some teenger today, just don’t fuck it up.”
“So much faith,” Art hummed, “Okay, bye.”
“Bye, Art.”
Tashi, August 11. 2019
Art is playing well. Like exceptionally well. Surprisingly well for someone who took a three month “step away from tennis”–bullshit reasoning if you ask her. No reasonable coach would let a player like Art just take a break. But if it were just a break, Art wouldn’t be playing this well. No. Art was playing with intention, with reason. She squinted her eyes, turning her head to another court. Patrick would be playing soon, and it would probably be more productive to watch her husband, and not his long-forgotten best friend.
Patrick could win this if he were careful, should win this really. Cincinnati was a shoo-in; it was a confidence booster. It was serious, yes, but the Masters 1000s were a bit of a warm-up; the issue was that Patrick treated it as such.
Tashi breathed deeply, giving Art’s game one last look before readying her hair, she could braid it blind at this point in her life; a braid was her routine for any match. As much as she loved her dear husband, she did care more about her own matches. Patrick was such a loose cannon that it was hard to ever predict what the hell he would do. At the very least, Tashi could control herself, and a long time ago, she’d decided if she was playing, it wasn’t the time to focus on his possible competitions. She’d bring it up later, for now, it was time to go kick some racist ass. Her favorite game to play was Is the girl I just beat upset about losing or losing to someone like me (trademark pending) . She came to expect the subtle racism, she didn’t mind as long as it came with a trophy.
Patrick, August 12. 2019.
“Something's up with Art,” Tashi called from the bathroom.
“Huh?” Patrick called from the kitchen of their suite, shoveling a handful of nutritionist-approved nuts into his mouth. Tashi came out of the bathroom with a sigh, taking off her lucky earrings (small gold hoops with crucifixes; she hadn’t been to church in years, but it kept her mom happy). With a loving smile, she moved into the kitchen, leaning her hip onto the counter.
“Art Donaldson, remember him?”
“Hmm, sounds familiar,” he joked back, staring at Tashi with a smile of admiration.
“Something's up with him.” Her face softened, taking up a sense of some seriousness. Patrick’s brows furrowed, popping the lid back onto the mixed nuts and sliding them onto the counter with a thud against the kitchen backsplash.
“Haven’t talked to him since, probably senior year, how would I know?”
“I don’t think that break he took was nothing,” she explained, lightly biting at her lip.
“What do you mean? You think something,” he paused, wondering about the real importance of this all, “something happened?”
Art used to mean a lot to Patrick, and in some ways, he still did deep down. But when Patrick and Tashi had grown closer, Art became oddly cold, quiet, and withdrawn. He carried this air around him that honestly made it miserable to even be in his presence. And he didn’t put up much of a fight when Patrick asked him less and less to hang out. Patrick has always figured it was some deep animosity or jealousy. Patrick was no stranger to being a little less than straight, but he’d never seen it so deeply in Art. Sure, he blushed and cuddled with Patrick when he was a little more than tipsy, tended to look at the ceiling in the locker room, and made soft giggles and glances at Patrick.
But when he and Tashi started dating, Patrick was never too sure if Art wanted to be Tashi or be with her.
“Something’s different about him, I don’t know. He’s playing angry,” she explained, “wouldn’t his grandma usually fly down for something like this? Maybe that’s why,” she thought out loud.
“Would Art and his grandma really have a falling out like that, though? Like what, he finally admits he’s queer–”
“Patrick, Jesus!” Tashi stopped him.
“Hey, I’m qualified to say it!” Tashi just rolled her eyes in response. “I’m just saying, it wouldn’t be like Dot to cut off Art, for, anything, honestly. He could murder someone, and she wouldn’t bat an eye.”
“You think her health is bad again? Remember when Art had to make the call to put her in the living facility?”
“Why are we even discussing this? Art cut us off years ago,” Patrick huffed.
Tashi sadly smiled, “He just doesn’t seem like the Art I used to know.
“I don’t think he’s been our Art for a while,” Patrick smiled sadly, pulling Tashi in by the waist to plant a light kiss on her hairline
Art, August 13. 2019
It was another day of not getting completely drop kicked out the bracket. Art felt like he was holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting to make the big mistake that would drop him out of these matches.
Something was in the air, something was stirring, and he just couldn’t quite put his finger on it. That is, until he had showered, changed and was leaving the locker room, on the search for Mark to be critiqued to shit. Protein bar halfway in his mouth, Art was stopped in his tracks.
There are very few people Art is excited to see. He’d always kept his circle small, and since his grandma's passing, his circle had been nearly nonexistent. There were, however, more people who could make Art’s heart drop to his stomach and make him want to hide out in his stupid hotel kitchenette for the rest of his life.
Tashi Zweig was one of those people. He’s pretty stupid for not expecting to not run into her at all, how would he not see her (and her fucking husband)?? But seeing her, and her shoulder-length hair tied neatly into a braid, like she always used to. Seeing her tennis skirt swish with her coordinated movements. Seeing one of the real, true friends he used to have before her and her husband got serious and phased away from Art. Growing up and away from him, ignoring him flat out on campus. It stung then to the lonely Art, it stings more now that he knows they won.
He’s 33. He has no friends. No social life. No kids. No wife. Just what most doctors would likely describe as orthorexia and a sad, too-big home in New York state.
Art says a small thanks to a god he’s not sure is listening that Tashi is playing at the moment, and unable to ask Art about…well anything even remotely personal. His few-month break had been labeled as stepping away from the sport, and it dawns on him at this moment that Mark, his nutritionist and his PT, are likely the only ones who know his grandma died. It hurts his heart to imagine telling 13-year-old Art how far apart he and Patrick have grown, that Patrick wasn’t even at the funeral. Art let out a bit of breath that was stuck in his throat, blinking before turning his head and returning to, wherever it was he was going.
Patrick, August 14. 2019
Patrick had finished his game much earlier than anticipated, some German kid. He tired out fast, and it was all (luckily) over in 2 sets. Tashi, though, was playing later in the day, which Patrick was slightly less grateful about. It gave him time to lollygag and take his time, bug he and Tashi’s shared PT; but it meant he was stuck at the courts slightly longer than he’d usually like. It also meant he had to remember how to read the useless maps smacked onto the walls. As he made his way to the court that Tashi would be playing at, a match caught his attention. Peaking through the chain-linked fence, Patrick saw exactly what Tashi was talking about.
Art was playing weird. Aggressive, not like himself.
Growing up, Art almost always played nicely, borderline polite; like acing his opponent was a step too far. Patrick would always tease him: This is a competition, yes, but maybe at the end we could all be friends and hold hands!
Patrick made fun of him for it, and would poke at Art until his cheeks glowed red. But it was true, Art was raised by his grandma, the sweetest woman on the planet, and she had certainly rubbed off on him in more ways than one.
Art looked skinny, too, he noticed. His eyes seemed sunken in.
He had always been a bit of a frail kid, always riddled with colds and coughs and fevers, but once he got to Stanford, he’d bulked up a bit. Almost like it took puberty a few years to chase him down, and once it did, it happened all at once. Art had been muscular for the first time in Patrick's knowing him, but looking at him now, he looked a bit like he did in high school.
Athletic, yes. He looked strong, but he looked tired. Like one of those genetic freaks with 3 percent body fat, a no-nonsense diet, and a severe joy deficiency. If Patrick’s being honest, Tashi was the only reason he followed a meal plan. So, a single guy like Art, it was impressive that he stuck to the books so hard for nutrition.
Art had just spiked the hell out of the ball, landing it in the opposite corner of where his opponent stood. It hit the ground with a thud before projecting into the gate. A smile didn’t even dare grace Art’s face, he just swallowed and prepared for his next serve.
Who is this, and what the hell did he do with Art?
Art clenched his jaw, shaking out the arm he held his racket, before bouncing the ball a few times. Patrick’s brows furrowed as Art readied to serve. What happened to that stupid thing he used to do?
Since Art was 9 or 10, he had this awful tick. He had to rest the ball at the throat of his racket, raising it up all dramatically before drilling his serve. Their coaches over the years had tried to make him stop doing it, for no reason in particular other than the stupidity of its looks and Art’s reliance on it to serve well in the slightest. They used to call it a mental crutch, the small habits that players start to associate with success, with not losing.
It was an ace, point Donaldson. Art swallowed, not even the ghost of a smile graced his face. He just kissed his teeth and got ready to serve once more.
Christ, he was murdering that player.
Patrick gave the court one last look before officially attempting to find the court Tashi’d be at, walking away from the game of a kid he’s not sure he knows that well anymore.
Tashi, August 15. 2019
Tashi was in their hotel room, still resting before she’d have to leave for her own match, watching Patrick eat shit on live television.
Patrick needs to get his shit together. His head was somewhere else, and a piece of Tashi worried that their conversation the other night is why his brain is seemingly floating out of his body. She knew she should have waited a little longer to bring it all up, but oddly enough, she’d hoped that knowing that Art was playing so well would light a fire under Patrick’s ass. Evidently, it did not.
Patrick was slow on his feet, missing simple hits.
Tashi hoped Patrick could feel what she was thinking, and pull it together.
He did this when he was close to success, to winning, it wasn’t quite self-sabotage as much as it was dropping the ball in a way. It was days like this Tashi had learned to tape notes to Patrick’s things, sometimes kind, sometimes not so kind, reminders to keep his shit together.
After the set, Patrick was seated, elbows digging into his thighs as he searched for his bottle of electrolytes. His eyes quickly trailed over something before he looked up with a smile, hoping the cameras would pick it up and send Tashi his thanks.
She just smiled to herself, Normatec leg sleeves limiting most of her mobility, Lily’s head resting on her stomach.
Don’t be a little cunt , the note read.
Patrick got his shit together quickly after that.
He just needed a reminder .
Art, August 16. 2019
Art was sitting alone in his room, staring at the meal he was supposed to call dinner. He was bone tired after today, the sun had drained much of the life out of him, his cheeks were dusted by the sun, and forgotten sunscreen. With a heavy sigh, he brought the fork to his lips, chewing whatever vegetable had been dumped onto his plate once, twice, and a few more times, staring blankly at the table in front of him.
His phone buzzed with a call from Mark, and with a sigh, he turned his phone over with a free hand, swiping the call and placing it on speakerphone.
“Hey,” he spoke into the quietness of his room.
“Art!” the muffled voice broke through his phone. Mark was likely in his car on the way to eat at a restaurant with his wife, both of whom were not on a meal plan.
“I was hoping to talk real quick before Reba and I got dinner,” Mark explained, his voice carrying too much joy for Art’s liking.
“Now, I know you don’t like to look at the brackets and matches and shit,” he trailed.
“Mark, I really don’t want to know anything until I play. Not even possibilities. I want to know–” Mark cut him off.
“I know, I know, but this is exciting!” He rebutted. Art chewed his lip, his eyes trailing between his plate and the phone.
“What is it?” He inquired.
“Well,” Mark started, obviously attempting to make a theatrical event of this all, “If you win tomorrow, which you will. With how’ve you been playing there’s not a goddamn doubt in my mind you’re gonna keep pushing on.” Art let out a breath, not so quietly telling Mark to hurry this shit up.
“Okay, okay, when you win tomorrow, there’s a chance that the final might be up against Patrick Zwieg!” he finished.
Art’s heart dropped. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck. His breathing grew slightly shallow, his hands clammed up.
“Why would that be good news?”
“I thought you’d be excited! It’d be just like old times,” he explained.
“I don’t want it to be like before.” Art countered, “I never want to be like that Art ever again.”
“Okay, Jesus,” Mark breathed over the phone.
“Let’s just take a deep breath,” Mark spoke measuredly.
“I just–” Art cut himself off with a deep breath. “If I wanted to know possibilities, I’d have been looking at the brackets, I’d have–” he let out another sharp breath “I’d have paid attention to Patrick ,” he bit out.
“Art, I’m sorry, I thought you’d be, I don’t know, excited. This is practically a high school reunion,” he explained.
Art sighed, massaging at the bridge of his nose, willing his own personality away.
“No. You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry. I just,” he paused. “Let’s just say he’s the person I’d prefer to avoid at a high school reunion.”
“Well, now’s the time to prove the fucker wrong, huh?”
Fucker s, really, Art thought. But he won’t give Mark anymore shit tonight.
“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
Tashi, August 17. 2019
Art was playing like a bitch, to put it kindly. He needed to focus. It was clear something was clouding his mind, his judgment, his reflexes. He wasn’t playing mean, and playing mean had done him well this Open. Tashi squinted her eyes, watching him give up little to no emotion, whether the rally fell in his favor or not. Art turned his head to the side, making eye contact with someone before nodding. He took a deep breath through his nose, relaxing his shoulders, and it was like a flip in Art’s head switched on.
This was the point that mattered most, Art just needed to focus.
Tashi could see Art’s jaw clench from the stands, Art readied himself before thwacking the serve down onto the court. The rally continued, the scuffling of feet and soft grunts were the only noises filling the stadium, until Art clipped it, ever so slightly, landing before spiraling off the court.
Match point, Donaldson.
Art closed his eyes, letting out a breath he’d evidently been holding. A ghost of a smirk dared to grace his face.
Donaldson 7 5 7
Granollers 3 7 5
He was moving on.
That could be…that could be tricky. She guesses it all depends on how Patrick plays. She knows she’ll be entertained nonetheless, and at the very least, one Zweig will be leaving Cincinnati with a trophy–Lord knows Tashi’s not losing shit this weekend.
Patrick & Art, August 18. 2019
Art
Art woke up that morning with a pit in his stomach and a call from Mark. How the fuck did he make it this far, was this a Jeckyll and Hyde situation? And can his Hyde come back?
“Hey Mark,” Art greeted, voice carrying his nervousness.
“Art! Good morning,” Art could practically hear his grin over the phone.
“You know the drill by now, carbs, and keep it calm this morning. We’ll get there at 1 or so to acclimate.”
“Okay,” Art said quietly, anxiety filling his bones.
“Hey, Art,” Mark started.
“Yeah?”
“Worst case is runners-up, not bad for your first one back.”
“Yeah,” he breathed out.
“I know it means more than that to you, but no one else has to know that.”
Art swallowed, “Okay.”
Patrick
A piece of Patrick wished he’d played like shit. Then it would just be a blip on the radar. One match out from a chance at a trophy, one match out from playing against someone who used to be the most important person in his life.
But Patrick had crushed it yesterday, he thinks a spirit took over him. He does’t even remember scoring any points yesterday.
Tashi was ever calm, never scared for a final like this. She’d won her majors, her Grand Slams (plural), Cincinnati was like a play date to her. She gave Patrick a soft look before plopping down on the coach next to him, coffee with almond milk in hand.
She brought her hand up to Patrick’s head, gently placing his curls back into place.
“Gonna do great,” she smiled, pecking at his lips.
With a heavy sigh, Patrick smiled, “Ditto.”
Art
At one o’clock sharp, Art arrived at the courts.
He was somehow feeling worse now than he was this morning, even with Mark’s consistent reassurances.
Mark stared at Art from across the ready room, watching Art aggressively stress-chew his gum. He gave him a knowing look before Art relaxed his jaw, calming his chewing down. Cracking his neck and shaking his head, trying to ease the rest of his body from tension.
Mark looked at Art, and nodded once. Art sighed, nodding before standing and getting ready to make his way to the courts.
Patrick
Patrick hated days like this, when Patrick and Tashi played in a final on the same day. He usually had to float through the day himself, with reporters at every turn reminding him that his one pillar of support wasn’t around to help him.
So he sat in the ready room by himself, staring at the wall in front of him, taking heavy and deep breaths.
Well. Now or never.
Art
Art walked slowly onto the court, sun shining brightly into his eyes, forcing him to squint harshly for a beat before taking a deep breath, filling his lungs and rolling his neck. He was going to have to look at Patrick eventually, but he really wished he could get through this all without having to make eye contact. All he could do was brace himself and hope for the best at this point. Art had won the coin toss, so luckily he’d be serving first. But that was just about the only lucky thing that had happened to him all week.
He looked across the court, smiling politely at Patrick.
No one had to know, just play it cool.
With a rough swallow, Art bounced the ball gently against the ground before throwing it into the air and striking it onto Patrick’s side.
With a smirk, Patrick lunged across the court, racket thwacking the ball in return.
It kind of felt like old times again, Art had to admit.
This entire time, this entire open he’d been playing like someone that wasn’t him. And yeah, it seemed to be working, but Art had been pretty miserable. (Though he figured other things could have factored into that all).
But now, here he was, playing with Patrick Zweig of all people, and suddenly all of the crowd had melted away. And this was some dumb, petty match over who’d have to take out the trash when they got home from practice.
Match point, Donaldson.
Okay, maybe this wouldn’t be too bad, just like old times.
Donaldson 7 –
Zweig 6 –
Patrick
Goddamit that was close. Fuck. At least Art didn’t seem smug about it all, Patrick graced him a slight look during their break, Art was leaned back into his chair, staring blankly ahead at the court, one of those nasty ass goos (that not even Tashi could force Patrick to eat) halfway into his mouth. Patrick looked back ahead, eating his own banana, sighing to himself. Patrick took a swig of his water, just hoping this set wouldn’t be embarrassing, at the very least.
As their break came to an end, Patrick threw a little Hail Mary, cracking his knuckles before picking his racket back up from where it was propped up against his chair.
Fuck.
Patrick rose to his feet, taking his place on his side of the court, a small smile gracing his face when he saw Art on the other side. Even if he lost today, at least he got to play with Art.
With a smirk, Patrick brought the ball down to the throat of his racket, parroting Art’s old eccentric serve, before smacking the ball down onto his side of the court.
Just like old times.
Donaldson 7 7
Zweig 6 5
Well. At least it wasn’t a pistol whipping loss. Certainly could have been worse. Patrick can’t lie that the lack of emotion on Art’s face broke his heart a little. Not even a smile, not a look of victory or happiness, just a sense of relief briefly graced his face. He just allowed the cameras to be shown in his face, answering the questions politely like a perfectly media trained ken doll. With a sad smile, Patrick answered his own media questions, before returning to the locker room, genuinely pleased with it all.
Yeah, he lost, and yeah it felt pretty shitty, but he got to play with Art again. And fuck did he miss it.
He sat on the bench in the large locker room, enjoying the silence of it all for a bit. Art trailed in silently after about 30 minutes or so, trophy hanging limply at his side. Patrick looked up at him with a smile, nodding his head over. Art slowly walked over and joined Patrick on the bench, tilting his head down tiredly.
Patrick lovingly bounced his knee against Art’s, Art just propped his head against Patrick’s shoulder in response.
August 19. 2019
Art was still in Cincinnati, a fact that pained him greatly. Even more painfully, Art was in Tashi and Patrick’s very nice suite, sitting politely at their faux dining room table, with a glass of ice water in front of him. Desperately trying to busy himself, Art had taken to drawing little figures in the sweat of the glass, trailing his fingers up and down the cool cup. He looked up to see Patrick, who was smiling at him like Miss Honey would gently look at Matilda.
“Oh, you poor, damaged baby.”
Art gave him a bit of an exasperated look, it seemed to snap Patrick out of his stupor. Patrick moved his lips from side to side, letting out an uncomfortable breath.
They used to be so comfortable together.
“So, how’s your grandma?” he started, wanting to break the ice a tad before Tashi came back. Patrick could imagine her frustration now ( Did you two just sit and stare the entire time I was dropping Lily off?) .
“She’s um, she’s dead.”
“Oh,” Patrick’s brows furrowed, “Oh God, I’m so sorry, man.”
“It’s fine, it was a few months ago. ‘M doing better now,” he explained softly.
“Shit,” Patrick let out, “Is that why, is that why you took that break?”
“Yeah, yeah. It wasn’t doing me much good. Y’know, being alone like that. She was all I really had, so,” Art pauses, trying to find the words, “I think I needed tennis the most when I lost her.”
Patrick nodded, sympathy covering his face. It made Art feel angry deep down. I needed you more than I needed tennis, asshole.
Art just swallowed instead, picking at his cuticles, wanting all attention off himself. With a sigh he asked quietly.
“So, um, it’s Lily, right? How’s Lily?”
A proud smile graced Patrick’s face, practically lit up.
“She’s good, she’s got all the good parts of us, which is all Tashi. I don’t think I passed anything on,” he joked.
For the first time since sitting down, Art looked at Patrick. Really looked at Patrick, beyond quick nods and socially appropriate eye contact. Patrick looked so different, but still all the same. Crows' feet framed his eyes, grey curls peppered his hair, and years in the sun had revealed more freckles. Art felt his stomach sink a bit at the sight of it all.
Tashi got to see him earn those. The grey hairs that sprouted every time Lily did some toddler fear-defying activity. The wrinkles that settled in after every smile. The freckles after every argument of refusing to put zinc on his face–aesthetics always coming above practicality. He missed it all. He missed 13 years of Patrick. It made him feel sick. So he just smiled, tight-lipped but fondly.
Tashi had made her way back quickly, her mom’s room being just down the hall. Patrick had explained she was always a bit of a built-in babysitter when they were both competing. Tonight was seemingly no different.
A bottle of champagne and 3 flutes in hand, Tashi gently closed the door with her foot. Smiling up at the two of them gently.
“I come bearing gifts,” she smiled.
Art let a small smile grace his face for the first time in months if he’s being honest.
“Can’t remember the last time I drank,” he smiled anecdotally.
“Damn, really sticking to the books, huh?” Patrick teased. Art just smiled in return, picking at his calluses subconsciously.
“Hey, maybe you should take notes from the one who beat your ass today.”
“He did not ‘beat my ass,’” Patrick finger quoted, rolling his eyes. Tashi just raised her eyebrows, gently popping the cork.
Art just sat there silently, like he always did when they bickered back in college. Tashi gave him a knowing look, filling up his glass half full as hers and Patrick’s, not wanting the champagne to speak for him.
“You beat his ass,” she smiled.
Art smirked back, shaking his head.
“I had fun today,” he admitted, “for the first time in a while.”
“Well, you sure don’t show it,” Patrick teased, raising the flute to his lips.
“Fuck off,” Art chuckled, “I did,” he smiled honestly.
“Missed this,” Patrick admitted, “Shouldn’t have fucked it up the first time round.”
Art just raised his eyebrows with a smirk, bringing the thin glass to his lips.
“To second chances and making up missed time?” Tashi proposed, raising her now quarter-full glass.
“To making up missed time,” Art smiled melancholically, clinking his glass against the two of theirs.