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Art loses the Atlanta Open.
It’s one of few things Tashi hasn't expected. She’d told him to propose, weeks after his grandmother died when he’d been all withdrawn and distracted, and she’s been more indulgent with his need for affection even though she doesn’t understand it. He’s responded well to that – feels more secure, probably – and he’s been winning. But he loses in Atlanta, and Tashi’s not sure why.
He’s quiet when they get back to the hotel. She tries to get a read on him so she can figure out what to say, but he wordlessly goes for a shower and stays in there for a while. When he comes out, he’s just as quiet, and he sort of hovers by the bed where Tashi’s taking notes on his game. For once, she doesn’t immediately know what he needs because none of his tells are showing. She hates not knowing.
“Are you done sulking?” she asks.
Art’s gaze drops to the floor; he always does that he’s trying to hide something. “Are you working on something urgent?”
Yes, Tashi wants to say. You lost a game you should’ve won by a landslide. But Art looks like a kicked puppy and the tired lines in his face look especially pronounced in the dim lighting, and she doesn’t think she has it in herself to be mean to him right now.
She closes her laptop. “C’mere.”
Art gets into bed with her, bending to press kisses to her forehead and lips and shoulder. For all his faults, Tashi does appreciate how gentle Art is, even when she doesn’t need him to be. She cards a hand through his hair and tilts his face up for a kiss, and he goes willingly, bending perfectly for her as he always does.
Last night, Patrick had fought her every step of the way even after pathetically declaring that he’d missed her. He’d fucked up into her even though she was on top, and he'd bit her fingers when she shoved them into his mouth. Art would never think of hurting her even that much – he’s so careful and sweet with her, always. Sometimes, she hates that about him.
—
There’s clearly something wrong and Art won’t tell her what, and he loses his next three matches in quick succession. It’s annoying because he’s been really, really good lately and now he can’t seem to get out of his own head again, and Tashi doesn’t have another card to play now that she’s already wearing his dead grandmother’s wrong. Sex isn’t working. Tashi’s even set aside some time every night to do nothing other than hold Art, and of course he loves it, but it’s not working.
“Hit the fucking ball!” she shouts across the court. He swings hard, face pinched, and the ball goes flying out. “Focus, Art.”
From where she’s standing, she can see his jaw clench.
“Crosscourt,” she says, sending another ball. He hits crosscourt, but not as well as she knows he can, and her frustration bubbles closer to the surface. “Down the line!”
Five balls later, Tashi breaks their rhythm. “We’re done for today,” she says. “If you’re not gonna try, there’s no point.”
Art looks upset. “I am trying,” he says.
“Really? You can’t do any better than that?”
Art pulls a ball out of his pocket and bounces it.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Tashi snaps, walking up to the net. Art looks up at her, messing with the ball with one hand. He’s nervous. “If you’re gonna keep playing like shit, we can pull out of Winston-Salem or however many Opens it takes until you get your head out of your ass. Is that what you want?”
“No,” he says.
“Then what do you need from me?”
He doesn’t look at the ground again – he knows better than that – but he doesn’t answer, either. One thing about being her husband’s coach is that Tashi can kind of just be mean to him, and he doesn’t even fight her on it. Tashi hates that she can get away with playing these games with him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He bounces the ball once before shoving it back in his pocket. “Can we just – I’ll try harder.”
It’s not an answer, but it’s something. Tashi steps back into position and picks up another ball.
—
Art wins Winston-Salem by the skin of his teeth, but he’s not relieved like Tashi is. He’s fidgety as all hell in the hotel room, and he goes for a run half an hour after his shower and comes back and showers again. He lies perfectly still in bed that night, but Tashi knows he’s awake, staring at the ceiling. She’s at a loss; she got good tennis out of him for the first time in a while, but apparently she hasn’t sorted his head out. It’s frustrating, feeling like she’s always fighting this uphill battle against his fucking brain when his body is so eager to please.
He’s still quiet the next morning as they pack up the room, but he eats his breakfast without complaint and does his share of the cleanup. Patrick would’ve bitched about the amount of greens and lounged on the bed while Tashi shoved everything back into their bags, and it would've annoyed the fuck out of Tashi, but at least she wouldn’t feel like she was pulling teeth trying to get him to tell her what’s wrong. Patrick loves to complain. Things would be so much easier if Art would bitch her out every once in a while instead of looking away and pretending everything’s fine.
It's even worse at the airport. Art sits and bounces his knee, staring at the wall. Tashi ignores it until he stands abruptly, and she raises her eyebrows.
“Bathroom,” he says.
If he needs a second, Tashi’s not going to be a bitch. She has shit to do, anyway. “Okay.”
He looks at her, fidgeting, before walking away. For a second, she wonders if he’d wanted her to say something dumb like Patrick would have, but she hadn’t, and she’s never been the kind of person to do that. She wonders if, had it been Art in the lobby, Patrick would still have gotten his dick wet that night in Atlanta. Then she feels sick for wondering because as infuriating as he can be, Art is loyal to a fault and she knows it.
She gets so distracted by work that she nearly forgets he’s gone until she overhears men talking as they walk past:
“There was a guy in the bathroom having some sort of breakdown. Looks like he might’ve been on something.”
“No way, security would’ve caught it.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
And that’s it, but Tashi gets this sinking feeling in her stomach – she needs to be there. She slams her laptop shut and asks the lady next to her to watch their bags before getting up to find the men’s bathroom.
Her heart drops along with her stomach when she walks in and finds Art standing with his arms wrapped around himself and his forehead pressed to the probably disgusting wall. He looks almost sickly under the fluorescent lighting. There’s an older man standing there with a hand on Art’s back, speaking quietly, and three other men at the urinals pretending nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Tashi walks past them, ignoring their surprised glances, and turns Art to face her. “Baby, what's going on?”
His eyes fly open when he hears her voice. He’s hyperventilating, she realizes belatedly. “Tashi?” he gasps.
“Your boyfriend’s real worked up,” the old man says.
“My husband,” Tashi corrects automatically. “Art, talk to me.”
Art shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut again. Tashi pulls him closer so she can tuck his face against her neck, and she runs her fingers through his hair, deliberately slow. He continues to take those terrible gasping breaths, shaking against her. The old man steps toward them and puts a hand on Art’s shoulder. “You’re alright, son.”
Art’s been an anxious person as long as Tashi’s known him, which is nearly five years now. They’ve been together for two, and she’s never seen him like this. He’s never even mentioned panic attacks and she’s never thought he might get them. “Just breathe, Art,” she says. “I’m right here.”
“Tashi,” he cries.
“You’re okay. You know how to breathe, don’t you? Show me.”
The old man gives her a sharp look. Art makes this strangled sound and shakes his head again, frantic. “Shh, it’s okay,” Tashi says. She wishes she knew what to do – would Patrick know what to do? Has Patrick seen Art like this before? If she called him, would he help? She pushes that thought away, focusing on Art’s trembling form in her arms. “If you need something, you need to tell me.”
“Can you try something for me, son?” the old man says, squeezing Art’s shoulder. He seems to have run out of patience with Tashi’s ineptitude. “I want you to open your eyes and name five things you can see.”
Fuck off, you don’t even know him, Tashi wants to say. You have no idea what he needs. But she wracks her brain for a better idea and comes up empty, so she keeps her mouth shut. Art pulls back from her, wheezing, and opens his eyes with what looks like great difficulty.
“Five things you can see,” the man reminds him. “You don’t have to say them out loud.” Tashi watches as Art’s eyes dart wildly around the bathroom before landing back on her, and she lets her hand slide down to the back of his neck. “That’s good. Now name four things you can hear.”
From one of the stalls, someone flushes. Art’s breath stutters. “You’re doing so good,” Tashi says. “Keep going.”
“Three things you can feel.”
Art shuts his eyes again, shuddering, and Tashi grabs his hand. “Hey, keep looking at me. I’m right here. Good.”
“Tashi,” he says again. His hand is trembling, but he’s not breathing so fast now. “I-I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Tashi says. Without looking at the old man, she asks, “What’s after three?”
“Two things you can smell,” he says.
“Pee,” Art says hoarsely. “And – perfume.”
Tashi’s perfume. She leans closer again, makes sure he can smell it, and he inhales obediently. “Good boy,” she says. “Are you back with me?”
Art nods, squeezing her hand back. His breathing is a little irregular still, but much, much better than it was. He presses his lips to Tashi’s forehead before turning to his new friend. “Thank you,” he says.
“Don’t mention it,” the man says. “First time?”
Art hesitates, then shakes his head. “Sorry,” he whispers.
There’s so much Tashi wants to say, but she doesn’t think any of it is right. She’s never been afraid to push him around a little, and yet he feels so fragile right now that she’s afraid she’ll break him if she’s not careful. So she cups his face with her hand and says, “Okay. That’s okay, baby. We’ll figure it out at home.”
Art nods, swaying a little.
“Get him some water,” the old man says, then steps back. “Have a safe trip.”
“You too,” Tashi says. “Thank you for your help.”
“Sure.” He studies the two of them, then adds, “My son used to get fits like this when he was younger. His kid’s got the same thing, so he took him to get checked. Turns out they’ve both got anxiety.”
Art’s looking at his feet again, and Tashi can feel the shame rolling off him in waves. “Right,” she says.
“Right. Send your husband to a doctor, won’t you?”
Don’t tell me how to take care of my husband, Tashi doesn’t say. “I will.”
They leave the bathroom and head back to their gate, and Art sleeps with his head leaned awkwardly on Tashi’s shoulder through the flight home. She stays wide awake, holding his hand. It’s bothering her that she didn’t know he’d had panic attacks before, since they spend practically all their waking hours together, and she especially hates that some stranger knew how to help him when Tashi had no clue what to do.
She has a feeling she might have bitten off more than she could chew, picking him as her husband, but she’s Tashi Duncan – Tashi Donaldson. If Art's having panic attacks, she can figure out how to deal with them since he clearly hasn't. She’s not going to be caught unprepared again. If her husband can’t beat his anxiety on his own, she’ll beat it for him.