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Patrick Zweig knew what he wanted.
It came to him on the hardcourt at the New Rochelle challenger. A bone-deep need as he opened his arms to catch Art and embraced him for the first time in thirteen years.
It came to him as a preteen, his first brush with intimacy as he listened to his best friend pant to completion beside him, just a bed away. The desire to reach out, to touch.
It came to him at eighteen. Frenzied mouths against one another in a hotel room with the beds pressed together, Tashi forgotten in the haze of desperation. Then the sobering realization at night, right before sleep gripped him. Patrick wanted Tashi bad, he knew that for sure. But then, why was he mourning the reality of kissing Art for the first and last time?
From then on out it was a musical chairs game. There was a space that was carved out for two of them at once, but never all three, and never Art and Patrick. Round and round until the edges between Tashi and Art began to blur through the lens of Patrick's desire. He sought out any piece of them he could get for the better part of a decade.
Thirteen years later, an ending and a beginning in Art's arms. Patrick lingered a little too long, and when he pulled back, he saw Tashi's rhapsodic face in the crowd. Patrick turned back to face Art, the man's previous ecstatic expression now dulled to a content grin.
"Good game." Art said.
*
Patrick's phone lit up.
"Do you want him to come over?" the text from Tashi read.
Patrick looked at the screen for a concerning amount of time. He hadn't stuck around after the match, opting to hole up in his car until he unexpectedly received exorbitant funds through Venmo that had certainly reached the upper limit of the permitted transfer amount.
From Tashi Donaldson, "For a damn good game of tennis."
So Patrick secured a three-star hotel and didn't say thank you.
He told himself it wasn't because he was scared. It's because he wasn't being a dick for once. He was giving Tashi and Art time to figure out... everything. But as he typed and erased new versions of a potential response to Tashi, he had to reckon with the truth: focusing on hitting a ball with a racket for his entire adult life resulted in less-than-stellar emotional maturity. He didn't know if he wanted to see Art or not.
After roughly a minute, Tashi's typing bubble popped up onscreen almost immediately followed by a new text.
"I'll tell him to come over."
Patrick was frozen.
"Give me the word and I'll stop him." She added.
Patrick wasn't going to do that, and she knew it. If he didn't know better he would've thanked her for being so giving, but he knew things about her as well. He knew that Tashi Duncan was an orchestrator. Whether she was a voyeur to Art and Patrick's repressed desire in that hotel at eighteen, or a voyeur to the love displayed at the New Rochelle match. When she couldn't be present, she made room on the sidelines. This thing between the three of them was tennis to her.
So he didn't say thank you. He sat in place, maybe for fifteen minutes, maybe for an hour, pondering if he should push the two queen beds in the room together. Would it mean anything to Art?
There was a knock.
Patrick paused.
There was a second knock, softer this time.
Patrick was on his feet and at the door in one swift motion.
His breath caught in his throat when he opened the door.
Art was in a plain gray tee and jeans. The lines around his eyes made him look tired. He looked old. The hardened shell of the Art in the sauna two days prior had seemingly dissipated to reveal something tender.
"Hi."
"Hey." Patrick said.
The took each other in. Art looked like he was examining Patrick in the all-seeing way Patrick recognized from their childhood. It made him want to melt.
"Can I come in?"
Patrick moved from the foyer, outstretching his arm in a welcoming gesture as Art stepped through the entryway, keeping his eyes on Patrick for a moment more before looking at the expanse of the room. Patrick saw the moment Art's eyes landed on the joined beds. His pupils dilated before looking back to Patrick.
"Was that- was that on purpose?" his voice cracked.
Patrick's eyes softened. He closed the door.
"It always is with you, man."
Art was silent for a beat before he regained some composure and nodded his head, an assurance for something Patrick wasn't privy to.
"Me and Tashi are getting a divorce," Art said.
Patrick laughed. A sharp, cruel thing, that caused Art to wrinkle his nose.
"I'm sorry-" Patrick started, "But you don't talk to me for a decade, then walk into my hotel room to tell me you're leaving your wife?"
Art looked down and worried his bottom lip.
"Well- I mean- not really? I asked if she was leaving me. She said it depends on how this goes."
Art smiled to himself.
"She also said we're not getting rid of her so... make of that what you will."
The usage of "we" did not go unnoticed by Patrick.
"Depending on how this goes?" Patrick asked, his chest banging like a drum.
Art stepped towards him, arms crossed.
"Did the match mean something to you?" Art asked.
"After more than a decade of being told to fuck off?" Patrick said, more venom in his voice than intended.
Art turned his face to the side and rubbed his fist into his palm, groaning.
"C'mon man, I just want to talk-"
"And I wanted to talk, Art. In the sauna, at Stanford-"
"At Stanford? I seem to recall you being 'busy' with Tashi until you ended her career-"
Patrick threw his hands up, laughing
"You still think it's my fault?"
Art and Patrick inched closer until they were a hair's breadth apart.
"Who else's fault could it be, Patrick?"
Patrick's jaw hardened,
"Yours."
Art guffawed, "Mine?"
"Our fight was about you," Patrick's voice quiets, "Me and Tashi's. It was about other things too, but it started with her mentioning you as she was about to fuck me."
Art's breath hitched.
"What did she say?"
Patrick was two seconds from telling Art to fuck off before he saw how Art's eyes were glazed over, filled with something familiar and foreign to Patrick. It sent blood rushing to Patrick's ears. The two of them were about to cross over into something they couldn't take back, not at their age, not with their history.
"She said that you were really hot. And really good at tennis."
"Did you think so?" Art nearly whispered.
"I know you're great at tennis."
"Fuck off, you know what I mean."
Art's breath was hot on Patrick's face.
"Yes." It was an answer and permission.
Art closed the distance, crashing his mouth onto Patrick's, quick and harsh.
Patrick had only had Art's lips on him once before, and while the memory was precious, it was hazy all these years later. Now this was new and real. Everything was different. Patrick could feel the small aged texture on Art's skin, the stubble on his upper lip.
Patrick cupped Art's face, committing it to memory so that even when Art left again, he'd have something to hold onto.
When Art opened his mouth into Patrick's, Patrick realized, there was no one else there. Art wanted him. Maybe not enough, never enough, but enough for him to have brought his hands to Patrick's belt.
Need coursed through Patrick's veins down to his groin.
"Bed?" Art asked, throatily.
"Wow," Patrick grinned against Art's mouth, "Take a guy to dinner first."
Art pulled away and Patrick's lips chased after his.
"I will, you know." Art said, "Take you to dinner, I mean. If you want."
Patrick wanted, he wanted so much he was bursting with it.
"And I'd let you win more matches if it meant I got to play with you again."
"Are we talking about tennis?" Patrick whispered, more exposed than he cared to be.
"No."
That was all it took for Patrick to push Art onto the beds, but not before Art grabbed onto the collar of Patrick's shirt, pulling Patrick down with him.
Everything was frantic, quick undressing, the heat of their unclothed crotches pressed together as Art worked them both while they exchanged sloppy kisses.
It was over almost as quickly as it started, both of them releasing humiliatingly fast and coming down from it with a laugh.
*
In the afterglow, tangled up in sheets next to Art, Patrick wondered if this was all he was ever going to get. The exchange with Art in the sauna lingered in his mind.
"Hey, Donaldson."
Art tore his gaze from his phone to look at Patrick. There was no malice there now, just interest.
Patrick Zweig knew what he wanted.
"You still too old to play with me?"
Art smiled and shook his head.