Chapter Text
Here’s the thing: for the longest time, Art can’t sleep. It eludes him no matter how hard he tries. Even when he’s exhausted from a long day at practice, in bed, when the dorm is dark, he can’t seem to sleep.
It’s not even nightmares. Just thoughts. Running circles around his brain, over and over and over until the weak light of dawn breaks into the curtains.
It’s making everything complicated. He’s supposed to be in tip top shape. He goes to one of the top tennis academies of the country, for Christ’s sake. His performance is lacking.
Patrick notices.
“Jesus, Art.” Patrick jeers when Art fucks up a return he should have down. “Get any sleep this week?”
Art’s stomach drops, and shame colors his face. Shit. He sends the ball back for Patrick to serve. Patrick does so with a smirk.
“Shut up.” Art mutters, thwacking the ball harder than he needs to.
“Seriously, Art.” Patrick’s eyes turn up, going soft like they sometimes do. “I’m worried.”
Art glances around at their classmates, all warming up, none paying them any attention. Art’s skin prickles anyway. Patrick is worried. Right. As if he’s not gonna find a way to fuck with Art over this.
Art realizes he hasn’t replied, but Patrick can read his face plain as day. Art knows he’s guarded, like, more than normal. And Patrick is unnaturally open. Even now, his big brown eyes are wide, imploring, like he really is worried. Patrick misses the ball.
Art scoffs. Turns away to rub an aching eye. He lines up his serve, and whacks the ball brutally. Patrick’s dark eyes track the ball as it flies out of bounds. Art scowls.
Patrick lets it go. Or at least Art thinks he does, until he’s lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling and Patrick breaks the silence for the second time in the four years they’ve shared a room together. Art very deliberately does not think about the first time.
“Art?” His voice is soft. Uncharacteristically so. Art automatically bristles. His thoughts whirl like a tornado in his brain, rattling up against his eyes and pushing on his skull. Art bites the bullet.
“Yeah, Patrick?” His voice is flat, exhausted, and gives everything away. He’s fucking desperate for sleep.
“Uh.” Patrick falters into the darkness, as though he wasn’t expecting to get this far. “Can I try something? To help you sleep?” He asks, sounding painfully hesitant. Art’s eyebrow quirks, curious despite himself.
“Whatever, I guess. Sure.” Art tries not to sound eager, but he really, really wants to go to sleep. It’s been weeks since he slept. Months since he’s felt rested. Years since the last time his eyes weren’t bruised.
Art doesn’t startle when Patrick climbs into bed next to him, but it’s a close thing. He feels his whole body go hot as Patrick’s bottomless black eyes find his.
“Um.” Art says.
“Shh.” Patrick shushes him, the bastard. Art huffs, and Patrick smirks. His eyes are still weird, not just sharp and calculating like usual, but soft and intense at the same time. It’s making Art’s stomach go funny. Art realizes he hasn’t spoken since Patrick told him to be quiet. He very carefully does not read into this.
“Okay. So.” Patrick starts. “Can I…”
Art’s face heats. He nods assent to whatever the fuck Patrick wants to try. Before he gets a chance to blink, Patrick is shuffling closer, winding a hand through his hair, and pulling.
There’s a pleasant click in the back of his throat, and Art’s mind goes blank. He faintly registers his body going completely lax, and he didn’t even know he was tense. His eyes are heavy in a way they never are, and he feels completely at ease. He curls closer to the warmth around him, and settles next to Patrick’s heart. His head is too fuzzy to find it weird.
He blinks awake, and it’s noon.
“Morning, princess.” A rough voice in his ear. Art scrambles away. Patrick’s hand falls away from Art’s hair. Shit. Shit.
“Patrick–“ Art squeaks, so embarrassed he thinks he might die.
“How’d you sleep?” Patrick is acting completely normal. Casual, even. It’s pissing Art off. Is he seriously going to act like that wasn’t weird as fuck? Like Art isn’t weird as fuck?
The thing is though.
“I slept. Well.” Art says stiltedly, not wanting to even believe it. His lifelong problem, solved just like that.
“Good.” Patrick smiles sunnily, like that’s that. And it is. They don’t speak of it again. Patrick just shows up every night to pull his hair and turn his brain off.
Nothing else changes. Patrick still chases him around the court to tackle him in front of everyone. He still rockets peas at Art during meals. He still flirts with girls incessantly.
That last one is what’s really fucking Art up. They sleep in the same bed. Every night. Art knows Patrick isn’t bringing anyone home because, well, he’s with Art.
Art has never been more awake, and it’s causing all sorts of problems. He notices everything. Things he would usually let slide.
Patrick’s arm lingering on his for a second too long. The stolen glances during class and practice and meals and– It’s driving him crazy, is the point.
They’re nearing graduation, and Art’s grades are actually looking good for the first time this semester. He might have a shot at Stanford after all. Patrick scoffs at the idea of college, but Art knows he doesn’t want to go pro like Patrick does. At least, not yet. There’s a lump in Art’s throat whenever he contemplates life after high school.
The night before they walk for graduation, they’re lying side by side. Patrick hasn’t pulled his hair yet, so Art is wide awake, skin tingling at the sensation of Patrick’s light fingers dragging over his neck. Art’s eyes flutter at the contact. His throat works, and Patrick’s hand stills. Art’s face flames.
“Patrick–” Art chokes out.
“Shh.” Patrick brushes his fingers against Art’s pulse points, and heat flares in the base of Art’s spine. “I got you.”
Patrick squeezes his neck gently, and Art shudders a gasp. He goes limp, just like he always does, letting Patrick move him around like a model or a doll.
“Hm, good.” Patrick says when he has Art tucked up against him, back to chest, and Art whines at Patrick’s low voice. The sound is blocked in his throat, stuttering out of him. He’s never been so embarrassed in his life. He’s never been so hard either.
If he could move, he would cant his hips up. He can’t think straight. Patrick just does this to him. One touch and Art’s body goes pliant. It’s maddening. He’s breathing heavily, and Patrick lets up the pressure on his neck. Art whines again. Patrick exhales shakily against his neck and squeezes once more, harder this time, just enough to make Art’s eyes roll and his brain go blank. He falls asleep to Patrick’s heartbeat, as is becoming routine.
He wakes up to his alarm, and Art freezes when a hand flexes on his neck. He carefully extricates himself from Patrick’s warm body, and dresses in his cap and gown.
They walk. Art’s parents don’t show. Art spends the summer getting drunk at Patrick’s huge house on the weekends, practicing with Patrick during the days, and sleeping with him at night. Art’s face heats at that thought. Despite however many times Art or Patrick wakes up with morning wood, they haven’t even… whatever. Nevermind.
There’s a complicated tangle of emotions in his throat all the time nowadays. They win the Junior Open. Patrick’s grin is like a volcano, and it’s making lava flow through Art’s veins. They sit in on the women’s singles. Then they see her.
Tashi is like a storm. Her strikes are like lightning, and when she wins, her elated scream echoes through the stadium like a thunderclap. Patrick’s hand is electric on Art’s knee. Her body flows graceful movements like raindrops, and Art turns to meet Patrick’s eyes. They’re blown out like they always are when he gets his hands in Art’s hair. That’s when Art knows they’re completely fucked.
When they meet her Patrick puts his foot in his mouth immediately, of course, but Tashi just looks between the two of them, amused as anything. She looks as smug as a cat who caught a bird, and just as devious.
When she shows up to their hotel room it’s a surprise. Art frantically stubs the cigarette out and shoves on a shirt. It’s not until she opens the door that he realizes it’s Patrick’s, and that they haven’t pushed their beds back apart. It’s as damning as a confession. Tashi’s clever gaze takes it all in, and she looks up at them with a smirk.
They drink, they talk. Tashi points between them.
“What about you two? Have you ever…” She trails off meaningfully. Art carefully doesn’t react. He does that a lot, he’s realizing. Patrick, however, just grins, low and slow. It lights a fire in Tashi’s eyes, and she leans forward. Art’s stomach drops out, and he sees how this is going to play out.
Patrick will reveal his humiliating secret, and Tashi will never see him as an equal again.
Patrick opens his big mouth and talks, and it’s worse than Art imagined. Because he doesn't reveal the secret, and that’s almost worse. Instead he recounts that one time, with the thing, and Art’s stomach swoops as Tashi and Patrick laugh at him.
Then she’s sitting on the bed, and they’re scrambling on after her. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to her neck, and suddenly she’s guiding his face forward, and he follows instinctively, and she’s smiling like she won something, and they’re kissing– all three of them–
Fire lights low and hot in Art’s gut. He’s rocking with the movement of the kiss. He barely notices when someone backs out, and whines high in his throat when a tongue licks into his mouth.
“Okay.” The moment breaks. Art’s eyes snap open, and Patrick jerks back from him. Art’s eyes slide to Tashi, who’s smiling serenely at them. Like she hasn’t just blown Art’s mind. Like she hasn’t just ruined Art’s life. Destroyed any future prospect of sleep. Because there’s simply no way Patrick will want to… do whatever it is they do anymore. Art doesn’t have a name for it. He doesn’t like to think about it outside of the safety of their bed.
“Can I have your number?” Art blurts, still not looking at Patrick, whose gaze he can feel burning a hole in his neck.
She looks between them again, that deviously amused look in her eye back.
“Whoever wins tomorrow can get my number.” She winks. “Good luck, boys.”
Art looks out the peephole after her, watching her stalk away as quick as she came. He slumps, turns, and yelps as Patrick slaps his dick. Right, he’s hard in his boxers. Great.
Patrick smirks up at him, and Art flounders. He was expecting bluster, awkwardness, not– this. Whatever expression is on Patrick’s face, it’s nothing Art has ever seen before.
The air between them is tense with electricity. Art can’t find any words.
Patrick rolls his eyes. He nods towards the bed, and Art’s legs move without his permission. As if in a dream, he falls onto the bed, and Patrick takes his place behind him. Art’s eyes are wide and mortified. His lips are still spit-slick.
A hand curls into his hair and tugs. His throat clicks, and he slumps. Patrick’s other hand comes to rest on his throat, and it’s all Art can do not to nudge up into his touch. It’s fucking addicting.
Something warm flares in his chest as he drifts off, content despite the challenge hanging over them both.
Art loses, of course. Of fucking course. He’s not bitter, though, really! He’s happy for them. He wishes them the best so hard that it curdles in his chest. He sees Patrick off on his first professional tour with something sour in his throat.
He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t, but he does.
“Did you fuck her?”
Patrick smirks, and dances around the answer because he knows it’ll rile Art up. Art already knows anyway. Patrick lines up the ball to the racket in answer, and that’s that.
Art says goodbye to Patrick, and silently wonders when he’ll sleep next. His bed is cold his first night in the dorm. He thinks back to the night before the Singles Open, when Patrick had cradled him to his chest like they could be something.
Art is so fucking stupid.
Stanford is different from high school, but ultimately the same. Art acclimates to the dorms well, thanking his lucky stars that he got a single so his hypothetical roommate wouldn’t have to hear him tossing and turning for eight hours a night.
It’s miserable for the first few weeks. He forgot how to sleep without Patrick. Without that firm hand in his hair, around his throat– and other things he didn’t realize he would miss.
Like his smell. The blue shirt Art never gave back doesn’t smell like him anymore. His bed smells like detergent, not Patrick’s particular brand of musk mixed with something woody.
He misses Patrick’s warmth the most. Now that he’s bereft of it, his hands are always cold. Maybe that’s just the sleep deprivation…
Art’s chest hurts a lot these days. His head more so. It beats a painful rhythm in his skull. He sees Tashi around, and that sends sharp rods of pain into his heart.
She doesn’t know it, but she took everything from him.
When Patrick comes to visit, in a lull in his tour, he texts Tashi first. He knows this because he’s started to hang out with her, in an attempt to feel normal. He sees the message light up her phone and her face, no matter how hard she tries to hide it.
They’re good for each other. That’s the part that hurts the most. He can see it in Tashi’s playing, how she’s more controlled, more intense, on and off the court.
When Patrick visits, Art knows he should behave himself. He just can’t help himself from poking, and okay, he may be just a little bit bitter. But he hasn’t slept in months, and Patrick’s eyes widen the first time he lays eyes on Art. His eyes go soft and worried. Art looks away.
When Tashi has class and Art doesn’t, Patrick slings an arm around his neck, and pulls him to the cafeteria. Art snips about Tashi, and dances around what he really wants to say. I miss you. I need you. I–
They sit too close. Art pretends not to notice Patrick pulling his stool closer, so nonchalantly, like it’s not clear as day that they have a gravitational pull to each other.
When Patrick offers the dining hall churro, Art automatically leans forward to take a bite. He’s noticed that he generally does whatever Patrick tells him to. It pisses him off. He doesn’t want to stop, which pisses him off even more.
When Patrick retires to Tashi’s room instead of his, something in him cracks. He doesn’t come find Art’s room at night.
Patrick leaves, of course. Art could never ask him to stay.
Instead he spends months talking to Tashi, going to practice, slogging through classes. He doesn’t think about Patrick. He doesn’t sleep, either.
Then Tashi’s knee gives out. And Patrick isn’t there. Then he is, but it’s entirely too late.
When Art yells at Patrick to get the fuck out, Tashi turns to him with a gleam in her eye. Art doesn’t know how to read her. He doesn’t know her intentions. It scares him. He doesn’t seek her out anymore.
Art doesn’t see Patrick for a long time after that. Tashi either. He graduates college without fanfare, starts touring, and still doesn’t sleep. His parents quietly paid his tuition. Art tries to feel grateful. He’s so grateful that it’s choking him.
He barely thinks about Tashi anymore, and of course, that’s when he sees her again. They talk. They dance around what they really want to say. Art asks her to coach him. The question tugs at her face in a weird way. She says yes anyway.
Tashi gets close enough to him that she discovers his insomnia. She discovers a lot about him, actually.
She doesn’t find out the most important thing, which is that he can’t sleep without her ex-boyfriend pulling his hair. Small mercies.
They grow closer. Art kisses her. He tries not to think about Patrick. It mostly works.
But the insomnia is becoming a problem. Now that she’s noticed, she connects it immediately to his playing growing sloppy, his serves weaker and more returns missed. It comes to a head a year into their working together, and she’s fucking pissed.
“This can’t keep going on, Art. It’s not healthy.” Her eyes are piercing and disappointed.
“I’m sorry.” Art demures. He can’t meet her eyes.
“Either you fix your shit, or you get on meds.”
Art freezes. He’s gone on meds just once. In middle school, before Patrick, before everything–
When he couldn’t sleep, when he woke his parents up one too many times– he got put on the meds. He doesn’t remember much from that time. The meds didn’t work, to say the least.
Fix his shit it is, then. Hm. How to ask this of her. They already sleep in the same bed, which is what tipped her off in the first place. It wouldn’t be that much different, right?
Shame colors Art’s face. Tashi’s expression softens. She could always read him just as well as Patrick.
“What is it?” She asks softly. “What do you need?”
Art carefully does not look her in the eyes. He can see her frowning in concern anyway.
“I- I need.” Art grimaces uncomfortably. He never had to ask Patrick. He just did it. “When someone… pulls my hair.” He stops, peering up at her. She looks dangerously intrigued.
“Yes?” She has that amused look that she hasn’t had in years. She’s gonna make him say it, isn’t she.
“It helps me sleep.” He mumbles, face on fire. “It’s kind of the only thing that does.”
She steps forward, taking his face into her palm. He exhales heavily, leaning into her hand.
“Tashi-“ He chokes, pleading. His shoulders are up to his ears. He realizes that his back is tense, his legs are tense, his jaw is tense–
“Shh.” She shushes him. It takes everything in him not to cry. He’s quiet as she walks to bed with him hand in hand.
He lays down slowly, and she faces him on her side. She combs her hand through his hair, and his eyes flutter. She hadn’t fully looked like she believed him before. Her eyes are soft now.
She threads her hands through the locks and pulls gently. Too gently. Art whines, high in his throat, shaking all over. She pulls harder, and Art falls into her, like a puppet with its strings cut. He shudders out a breath.
When he wakes, Tashi is staring at him. He jolts upright. It’s way past time for him to be training.
“Shit-“
“Art, it’s okay.” She beckons him back down. He goes slowly. It feels like a trap.
Her hand combs through his hair softly, and his body relaxes involuntarily.
“Jesus, Art.” She says. His face scrunches up, and she runs her finger down the smooth of his forehead to the tip of his nose. His heart flops painfully in his chest.
When he puts a ring on her finger, he does it because he wants to. Art loves Tashi. Now that he’s sleeping, she acts completely different. Softer. Art tries not to think about it. He definitely doesn’t let it remind him of Patrick, of how nothing ever changed, how they simply were–
Things are good. Tashi is pregnant. Art is winning his matches, and sleeping well. He’s never been more empty. Never been more disconnected.
Lily brings him back. She saved him, if Art’s being honest with himself. Not that he doesn’t love Tashi, but it’s… hard. Sometimes. She gets it, but she doesn’t get it.
With Lily, he can just be. He just has to provide, just has to help, just has to love. He’s always been good at helping. At following directions.
Lily grows slowly and he enjoys every second of it. He even goes to sleep in her bed without Tashi, lulled by the unique scent of his daughter, heart full as he cradles her.
He’s warm these days, and he doesn’t think about Patrick. Except to reassure himself that he is, in fact, not thinking about him.
Then he goes to Atlanta. And he sees Patrick. It kinda ruins his whole not thinking about Patrick thing. He pretends not to notice that he and Tashi were talking. He pretends not to know that they hid it from him. The warmth in his chest is shot through with ice. Tashi still pulls his hair every night, their routine becoming tender and natural.
When she signs him up for the New Rochelle challenger, Art doesn’t question it.
When he finds out that he’s playing Patrick, a shard of panic lodges in his throat and won’t leave.
He goes to Tashi for reassurance. That was a mistake.
“If you lose tomorrow, I’m leaving you.”
Of course. Of fucking course. Art knows how this will play out. She knows he’ll lose. She’ll leave. She’ll find Patrick again, as if she never left him.
Art is so fucking stupid.
He doesn’t sleep that night. Tashi left him alone in bed, and he stares at the ceiling miserably. He can hear her speaking softly to Lily. He’d go out to join them but something blocks his throat.
The next day, Art speaks to Patrick for the first time in twelve years. Art thinks it’s been about that long since his soul was complete. Since he got a good night’s sleep.
They don’t resolve anything. When do they ever?
Art just bares his teeth and stands his ground, ignoring how Patrick looks like complete and utter shit, how he looks like he’s the insomniac now, how his scruff is less fashion choice and more involuntary lifestyle.
There’s a red mark on his cheek, like someone slapped him across the face. Art ignores the pain in his chest and leaves Patrick in the sauna.
The next day, they play. It’s invigorating. Art hasn’t felt the heat of tennis like this in years. It brings out the worst in him. Patrick brings out the worst in him.
Patrick wins the first set. Art’s playing becomes more intense, and Patrick’s smile gets bigger with every thwack of the ball.
Art wins the second set. Tashi is wringing her hands in the first row. Well, she would be if she weren’t so composed. But Art can read her now. She’s nervous.
Patrick lines up the ball with the racket and Art’s brain short circuits. No.
He slams the ball back to Patrick, and then they’re falling into each other’s arms and the match is a legendary draw.
There’s something in Patrick’s eyes that Art can’t read. A painful jolt in Art’s chest accompanies the realization that they don’t know each other anymore. Not in the effortless way they used to.
Tashi envelopes him in a hug when they step off the court, and she looks between them with that old smugly amused look she always had back in college. Art doesn’t know what’s happening. Tashi takes them both by the hand, and Art follows silently. If he never sees Patrick again it might destroy him. He thinks Tashi might know this.
They reach the hotel room, and Art has no idea what is about to happen. Truly.
Tashi turns to Patrick.
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
“It always is.” Patrick says with that strange small smile. “About what in particular, though?”
“You discovered that Art needs his hair pulled to go to sleep.” Tashi’s voice is mild. As though they’re discussing the weather and not Art’s most mortifying secret.
Patrick tilts his head and smiles a real smile this time. Tashi smiles back, and they both turn to him. Art realizes that they’ve somehow come to an unspoken agreement. How easy it is to fall back into people.
Art doesn’t know what they expect him to say. Patrick rolls his eyes, and Art stares at him pleadingly. Patrick glances at Tashi before stepping forward and placing a hand on Art’s neck.
Art’s eyes widen, and he leans into the hand unconsciously. Patrick squeezes and Art’s knees go weak. It takes everything in him to remain standing.
Through slitted eyes, Art sees Patrick’s blown out pupils, same as ever. He’s full on grinning now, so much fondness in his eyes that it hurts Art’s chest.
Art gasps for air when Patrick lets go, and Tashi takes both of their hands. Art follows, but Patrick looks hesitant. Art catches Patrick’s free hand and squeezes. Patrick looks painfully small.
Art slowly brings up their joined hands to his lips, and Tashi looks so happy, like this is right where she wants to be, and Patrick is staring up at him in awe–
Art’s heart swells. There’s a moment of realization. A moment of wait– I can have both? That’s a possibility?
Because here’s the thing: Art’s never let himself want before. He’s taken what he’s been given without complaint because you never know when it’ll get taken away. When things will change.
But. Maybe this change will be good. World-altering, mind-blowing, all encompassing good.
Tashi leads them once more to the king bed. Patrick follows easily now. They fall into a tangle of limbs and Art finds himself pressed under Patrick’s body. Heat flares in Art’s sternum, and it takes everything in him not to move against his warm body. Oh how he’s missed it.
Patrick gets a leg between Art’s thighs and he shudders a gasp, throwing his head back at the contact. Patrick grins at Tashi, who smiles back. Art feels like he’s falling apart at the seams, the weight from Patrick’s body the only thing keeping him together.
Patrick gets a hand on his pulse points again, and Art mewls as he squeezes slowly. The pressure is heaven. Tashi winds a hand through his hair and pulls hard, just how he likes it, and his body jerks with it.
“Relax, Art.” Tashi says quietly, stroking a hand down his side. It sends a wave of shivers through his bones, and he untenses slowly.
“Good.” Patrick says, and squeezes tighter. Art sees stars. He sees whole galaxies and supernovas and comets behind his eyes. His breath leaves him in a whine.
Art feels boneless. When he comes back to earth, Patrick and Tashi are staring at him. Tashi looks hungry, and Patrick just looks awed. Just like he always used to.
Art just knows his expression is blown out, desperate, but he can’t help it. He needs more. He needs them. His breathing is coming in gasps, and Patrick smiles gently at him, the expression juxtaposing with the strong pressure he’s putting on Art’s neck. He lets up for a second to let Art catch his breath. Art’s head is spinning.
“Hn- Please, more-“ He gasps enough air to beg, staring up at them. They exchange a glance he can’t read before they’re reaching for him again. Patrick places a hand on his neck, and Art twitches up into his hand, flaring like a live wire.
“You’re gonna be the death of me.” Patrick’s voice is rough, and he squeezes Art’s neck with a tenderness that makes Art’s chest ache.
He goes limp between them when Tashi pulls his hair, and he drifts for a while. There’s low, comforting voices above him. Eventually his head is guided into someone’s lap, and he buries his face deeper into their thighs. They’re smooth. Tashi cradles his head with her body as Patrick takes over.
The hand in his hair is hot. Art whines, desperate, dying for it, like a thirsty man in a desert, and Patrick shushes him.
Art falls silent.
“Good, Art. You’re doing so good.” The low voice is completely devoid of mockery, so loving and fond that Art has to nestle deeper into Tashi’s legs.
They stay like that. Patrick’s hand in his hair, Art floating like he’s on a cloud. There’s still things to talk about, like Lily, like the nearly decade-long gap in his and Patrick’s relationship– but that can wait.
When he wakes they’re both still there. Tashi’s shifted to the big spoon, and Patrick cradles him from the other side. His heart is full. That’s enough. That’s all Art can ask for, after all.