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Patrick couldn't remember what he'd said, even years later.
It happened on one of the night's he had spent with Tashi at Stanford, before he went on that god awful tour, and before everything went wrong. They had just finished doing what they always did, fucking so hard it felt more like fighting. The night is hot. Patrick didn't bother putting his shirt back on.
He just cracked open the window, and pulled a box of cigarettes and a lighter from his jacket, half on the floor and half on her desk chair. He was musing on how far he must have thrown it, when Tashi says, voice clear and even from the bed,
“You talk about Art a lot when we're fucking.”
Patrick dropped the lighter.
It wasn't an accusation. Tashi, for all her Achellian talents, wasn't very good at masking her emotions. At least, not to Patrick. He knew that she wasn't even annoyed, it was just an observation, not different than the ones she'd say aloud when they'd watch tennis on the TV. His form is bad, she needs to do better stretches before the match, you talk a lot about Art when we're fucking.
And Patrick can't remember what he had said. He could just feel the sweat on the back of his neck, dripping.
“You jealous?” He asked instead, trying for light hearted teasing.
Tashi reached out from the bed, body all lithe, and picked up the lighter.
“Should I be?” She asked, flicking on the flame.
It took more than one try for Patrick to successfully pull out a cigarette and light it. His hands felt slippery, unused to such a familiar action, somehow.
“Of course not,” Patrick said, taking a drag, then spilling out smoke from his lips, “He’s my best friend.”
Tashi hummed, and then pushed herself up from the bed, graceful but still dangerous. Patrick sometimes thought she moved like a panther, hunted and preyed like one too, out on the court.
“Yeah, but do you love him?” She asked, casually taking the cigarette from his hands, as she had done so many times before.
Patrick stopped, fully, mouth open, stuttering. But Tashi didn't notice the impact of her questioning, she just stared out into the darkness of the half opened window, at a point Patrick couldn't make out. She was still perfectly at ease, as if it was entirely fucking normal to ask your boyfriend if he was in love with his best friend.
They don't talk about love. They talk about tennis. Sometimes, they fuck.
Patrick knew he was entirely out of his depth.
“What? No. Of course not. I can't - I couldn't.” He finished, lamely.
“That's the first time you've said you couldn't do something,” Tashi said, smiling, taking another pull of smoke before passing it back, “Anyways, you talk too much during sex.”
Something in Patrick relaxed at that. Or maybe it was just the nicotine finally doing its job.
“I've never been the quiet type,” He said.
The smoke was pretty against the black outside the window, swirling and warping before it filtered into nothingness.
“Alright, we can compromise,” Tashi said with her wicked smile, the one that Patrick knew meant that she was going to win, even though this wasn't a fight, “You can just tap me.”
“Tap you?”
She nodded.
“One tap for me being beautiful, and two taps for Art being beautiful,” She said, laughing, “That's all you can ever manage, anyways.”
Patrick had smiled too, then, and shoved her shoulder, without any real force behind the gesture.
“Oh, fuck off.”
—
Years later, after Achilles had broken her heel, and married Art, and coached him, and had his child, Patrick remembered that sweat damp night.
They were sprawled out in the backseat of Patrick's shitty car, next to some old receipts and trash, still basking in it. The storm was still raging outside, but had recently hit a lull. Patrick knew it wouldn't be long until they'd put their clothes back on, and Tashi would bring up tomorrow's match, again, and pretend that's all she came here for. It might have been years, but Patrick still could remember Tashi. Art, too, though he was always more obvious.
Patrick fingers tapped against her arm, mindlessly, like a heartbeat. One two, one two, one two.
—
Art won the match.
Patrick was ecstatic. It wasn't because he didn't need to throw the match, after all, or even just the rush of finally playing Art again, for real. It was that he had looked so fucking beautiful when he'd done it, golden and god-touched in the air, like Tashi was, back in her prime. And then he'd fallen, like a gift from the heavens itself, directly into Patrick's arms.
Patrick could hear Tashi’s voice from the stands, a war cry, victorious. She was almost drowned out by the crowd, uproariously cheering, standing up from their seats. Art’s clothes were slick to his body from sweat. He was panting.
For a moment, Patrick thought he'd never let go.
But, like everything, the moment ends.
The reporters are the first to rush onto the court, lenses flashing, cameras rolling. Patrick doesn't wait for the rest to follow, or for, God forbid, Tashi. It's easy to slip away, into the crowd, unnoticed. Nobody wants to talk to the loser.
He hadn't actually really considered what he was going to do, after the match. He's down seven thousand dollars, barely had any left of the four hundred from qualifying. He needed to find some new competition with a cash prize, or something. He hadn't gone back to his parents yet, tail between his legs, and he's not going to change that. Not today, not after such perfect moments, after a glimpse of something he'd been craving for years, not with Art’s sweat still on his hands.
---
His car looked shitty now. It looked especially shitty next to Tashi Donaldson.
“Shouldn't you be with your boy?” Patrick called out, trying to look normal.
He's already been beaten today, if it only felt like it now, on this walk of shame. The last thing he needed was pity.
“Shouldn't you?” Tashi asked, unreadable behind expensive sunglasses.
And before Patrick managed another retort, mind slower than his body, as per usual, Tashi spoke again.
“Lily’s with her grandmother.”
It's enough of a non sequitur that it actually stopped Patrick in his tracks, made him readjust his bag slung over his shoulder. Tashi gave nothing away.
“So?” Patrick asked, genuinely confused.
Tashi looked away, to her side, her profile dark against the reflected sunlight from the car behind her.
“I was telling the truth, you know. I never meant to be a homewrecker,” She said, paused, then, “Come to our hotel room.”
And it wasn't like Patrick hadn't thought about it. Hell, he’d probably spent most of his life thinking about fucking Art. Tashi too, obviously, but she was at a disadvantage from coming into his life so much later. There had been years of thinking, of playing it off as a stupid crush, of knowing he has been wanting for too long to deny it, but denying, anyways.
And it had gotten easier to cope with, to delude himself, but if Art had bent Patrick over and fucked him in that sauna, he wouldn't have stopped it. He would have savored it.
Patrick swallowed.
“Does he know about this? Did you even ask him?” Patrick asked, hating the logical part of himself for winning, for once.
Tashi laughed at that, the way she used to when Patrick would say stupid shit in college.
“You two,” Tashi finally managed, pulling her sunglasses up, “Are lucky you're pretty.”
And then she moved, breezing past Patrick without so much as a glance, only pausing to press a hotel key card into his hand. Patrick stared at it, dumbly.
—
Patrick spent an embarrassing amount of time at the door, key in hand. He never thought he was an over-thinker. He wasn't much of a thinker, in the first place. But standing in the temperature controlled air, staring at a metal doorknob, his mind raced.
It was surprising that he'd manage to open the door at all, with the twisting pit in his stomach. But, at that point, Patrick had half convinced himself that this was all some type of elaborate prank, that there'd be cameras, and everything. He always performed better when someone was watching.
“Patrick,” Art said, standing down the hall, wide eyed and open mouthed.
It was obvious that he was fresh from the shower, still damp, towel barely hanging onto his hips, one hand flexing at his hip to hold the fabric. His shoulders are broad, and his muscles are defined, and his hair is turned dark from the water. It reminded Patrick, vaguely, of the old Greek marble statues he had looked up to in awe at museums. Victory looked good on him. Maybe it always had.
“Art,” Patrick said, because he couldn't say anything else.
It was like the sound of his voice woke Art from some trance. Patrick watched as he came back to himself, blinking, and looked for his wife. He seemed unwilling to turn his back to Patrick, though if it was out of respect or caution was anyone's guess.
“What is he doing here,” Art said to himself, probably unconsciously, the way he used to when he was younger and stressed.
“Tashi gave me a key,” Patrick explained, loudly, and walked into the hotel room with more confidence than he felt. The door clicked quietly behind him. It felt final, somehow, like now that he was invited in he wouldn't leave without what he wanted. Like some kind of fucking vampire.
“Why did you bring him here?” Art asked, as they entered the bedroom.
Patrick and Art both went stone still when Tashi entered.
Really, Patrick would probably be impressed that Art was still so infatuated with his wife, jealousy on both parts aside, if he wasn't caught up in her, too. She's wearing a silk robe, untied and open, pale blue, an appealing contrast to the lacy lingerie beneath. Her head is cocked to the side, her hair making a slanted line. Her smile is equally confident and hungry.
“I've brought him here so we can fuck him,” Tashi said, smile widening, “Obviously.”
And then, after a moment,
“Well, you first.”
Patrick saw from the corner of his eye how Art had tensed at that, felt it crack something deep in him, but tried not to let it show. Art couldn't even bring himself to look at Patrick when he spoke next.
“You… agreed to this?”
And it was Patrick's turn to laugh, cold and quickly.
“I've want you to fuck me since fucking boarding school, dude.”
And that was all it took to make Art look at him, eyes wide again.
“Really?” He asked in a voice unjustifiably small, and that won't do.
“I thought it was obvious. I mean, I literally went through a phase of throwing myself at you. Some might argue that I never-”
“Maybe you should fuck his mouth first,” Tashi interrupted, “I always wished I could in college.”
Art smiled unguarded.
“Yeah, he always talked too much, didn't he?”
Tashi nodded, then pulled Art down for a kiss, chaste. Barely longer than a moment. She turned back to Patrick with self satisfaction dripping off of her. Patrick felt so hot he was surprised his skin wasn't burning.
“Well?” Tashi asked, expectantly, “Why aren't you on your knees yet?”
“Maybe you haven't given me a good enough reason yet,” Patrick said, sharply, “ ‘M not that kind of girl, see -”
He was cut off by the impact of Art stumbling forward into him, obviously pushed. Patrick grabbed him, steadied him, held him up with a tired grip on his waist. He's all wet muscles and soft skin.
Art looks up at Patrick like he's a Catholic saint. Devotion.
Tashi gave the pair a look as if to say ‘hurry up, then’.
Patrick spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about their first kiss. Art had just been so desperate. His mouth had been hot, eager, so quick to adapt to Patrick’s lead, as if the only thing Art wanted was to be close to him.
Only in retrospect did Patrick realize how much Art kissed like he played - always letting Patrick be center stage, get the glory, finish the move.
It was the same this time, only that Art made a soft sound when their lips mashed, like he was wounded. He's a lot more touchy, too, trailing his fingers down Patrick's jaw, neck, chest, arms, then jaw, again. It's an oddly soothing rhythm. Art doesn't press his fingers down, as if he's scared to break something. Poor winners, sore losers.
Patrick bit down on his bottom lip, breaking the kiss for air. Art trailed after his mouth, instinctively, sucking down the heaving breaths that Patrick's been reduced to. Art’s hands were shaking on Patrick's neck.
Tashi ran a manicured hand through his hair.
“Fuck me,” Patrick murmured, Art still leaning their faces together, both breathing hard, gripping at each other, “I'm convinced.”
Tashi slid her hand down from Patrick's hair to his shoulder, pressing him onto his knees, guiding him. There's a look in her eyes, not condescension, not satisfaction, quite, but something else.
Patrick still hadn't figured it out by the time he tossed the towel and wrapped a hand around Art. But then, at just the slightest touch, Art had thrown his head back, making an appealing display, leaning back into his wife. He moaned, too, so soft that Patrick almost missed it.
Tashi stifled a giggle.
Then she wrapped a hand next to Patrick's, “Be a good boy,” she cooed, “And open your mouth.”
Then she fed Art’s cock into his mouth, inch by inch.
Patrick's not new to sucking cock, some might even argue he’s got a natural talent at it, more than he ever did for tennis. But there's something different about this, Tashi’s eyes looking down at him, Art curled into her neck, biting down on his fingers to keep quiet, the air heady, and tense. Patrick can feel his brain turn off.
He only realized he was deep throating when his nose hit pubic hair. Even this part of Art’s stomach was all lean muscles. Patrick reached up a hand to the pronounced divet of his hip, steadying himself, thinking of ancient Greek statues again.
“Eye contact,” Tashi chided.
Quickly, Patrick flicked his eyes back up. Art had propped his head up against Tashi's shoulder, just enough so that Patrick could make out his pretty down turned eyes. Art’s already sweating again, face all flushed, looking nearly as he had during the match.
Art gives away so much power, so freely, it’s fucking addicting.
“You ready?” Tashi asked.
Patrick nodded, as much as he could in spite of the obvious.
And then Tashi took over the space around Art’s hip, wielding him, pushing his hips in short, shallow jerks. Art’s whining, high pitched and tantalizing, already sounding wrecked just from this, barely anything. She works his way up to a proper thrust.
The sound that Art made at that was so full bodied that Patrick could feel it. It's ruinous, the kind of sound Patrick knows will haunt him even as he heard it. He needed to hear it again. More than he needed to play, or drink, or smoke, or do coke, or whatever bullshit he’d been filling his time with, waiting for Art and Tashi.
But, despite his newfound determination, there wasn't much skill involved in getting your face fucked. Art was doing most of the work. Or rather, Tashi was. Still, Patrick tried to use his tongue while keeping his teeth at a safe distance. Give Art something to really moan over.
Tashi hadn't pulled her eyes from Patrick once, since she pushed him down on his knees. But she's pressing her mouth to Art’s ear, whispering something, lots of something. Sometimes Art moans louder at her mouth than Patrick's.
Patrick dug his fingers into Art’s thigh, jealous.
“Fuck, Patrick,” Art gasped, “S’tight,” and something inside him relaxed.
Tashi's smile went crooked, and then, suddenly, Art’s hips were moving. Fast and frantic. Patrick has to grip at Art’s thigh just to steady himself, now. His jaw is already sore. Patrick already knew it was worth it.
Tashi ran a hand from Art’s hip, slowly, over Patrick’s jaw.
For a moment, Patrick can't tell if Tashi's using him or Art more. He's so hard he thinks he might pass out.
“Fuckin’ perfect,” Tashi said, although it wasn't clear who she was talking to, “Come for me, baby.”
And, as if waiting for her order, Art moaned so hard it was nearly a scream and came down Patrick's throat. It’s only muscle memory that kept Patrick from spitting it all up, and choking. He didn't even realize he had come, until a few moments afterwards.
And then everything's perfect again. Patrick's on his knees, with a bitter taste in his mouth, and not a single thought in his head.
But the moment ended, again, this time with an oversensitive whimper, and Art pulling himself from Patrick. He feels bereft, almost hollow. In a few minutes, he’ll collect himself enough to pretend that this wasn't everything, that he wants them, both of them, a normal amount, the normal way.
Patrick closed his eyes, and leaned forward onto Art’s thigh. One last weakness he’d allow himself.
“You're not falling asleep, yet,” Tashi asked from above him, “Are you?”
Suddenly overcome with a tiredness, Patrick didn't even open his eyes when he answered.
“You don't want me to leave now?”
Then, faster than Patrick can make sense of, there are strong arms around him, pulling him up onto his legs, bearing the brunt of his weight.
“No,” Art said, confidently, “Stay.”